


Stuck on the Puzzle

by lethallen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, in which Inquisitor Lavellan is rightfully distrustful of a Tevinter mage, more like distrust to friends to lovers, not really enemies to friends to lovers, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 08:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethallen/pseuds/lethallen
Summary: From the moment that Dorian meets Feyren Lavellan, famed Herald of Andraste, it's fairly clear the man doesn't like him. Understanding why leads to more growth in Dorian than anyone -- least of all him -- would have thought possible.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be honest, even the friendliest of Dalish would likely be wary of a Tevinter mage, even if they were surrounded by other Dalish, and I feel like Bioware (kind of understandably, considering how much effort it would take to get this deep) brushes over how terrifying it would be to be a Dalish Inquisitor. So that's kind of what I'm trying to do here. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. The title of this fic is based on the song Stuck on the Puzzle by Alex Turner!

_Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?_

Feyren knew that he was quick to distrust shemlen these days, perhaps inordinately so. It had never really been the case before; of his clan – though they were all known to be… friendlier towards the humans than others – he was the most hopeful of a future where humans and elves could co-exist peacefully, respectfully. But that had changed since the Conclave.

It was one thing to be welcoming and respectful toward humans when you were surrounded by your clan, giving you confidence in knowing that, should a situation arise, you would have plenty of allies. That was not the case here. Suddenly, he was the prophet of a god in which he did not believe, surrounded by humans who could turn on him at any moment. Who likely would if he didn’t hold the only key to their salvation.

First, there was Cassandra and Leliana, each so rooted in their faith it seemed as though they could scarcely conceive of a world outside of it. Cassandra had started off wanting to kill him, which, though she apologized and he understood, was enough to make him wary. Besides, she seemed disapproving when he’d told her he didn’t believe in the Maker, that he believed in the gods of his own people. _And there’s no room among your gods for one more?_ she’d said, as if it was as simple as corralling another halla. If he’d said that to her about his own gods, she would have found it preposterous. Blasphemous. But to her – to all the shems – the elven gods were flights of fancy.

Leliana was a bit better, though she, too, brought questions of faith to him in their first conversation, as if expecting him to have an opinion. It was not egregious, though, again, the implication that he was a Herald of Andraste made him deeply uncomfortable. Anyway, she was a spymaster, jaded and hardened; he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to fully trust her based on that alone. Though the Dalish were secretive towards those outside their kind and clan, they were immensely open with each other. Spymasters were not a thing that existed within the Dalish. That was made fairly clear when they sent _him,_ of all people, to spy on the Conclave.

There was nothing inherently wrong with Cullen, but, still, he was a human fully expecting Feyren to cooperate and trust him without question. Though he wasn’t sure how fair it was, given that he’d never met one before Cullen, he was inherently wary of Templars; his clan met a number of city elves, especially after the Rebellion, who escaped from Circles and told of cruelties done to them by Templars. Cullen didn’t seem like the type, but one could never be sure. Josephine was probably his favorite of the humans, since the first moment she’d greeted him in elvish. Though it was all she knew, it was the first time someone was courteous enough to acknowledge that he _was_ an elf (and not, of course, in a derogatory way), to try to make him feel more at home.

So the main group Feyren was meant to trust were all shems, some of whom he had reason to distrust beyond that. He _had_ found a few allies whom he trusted – Varric was kind and seemed to be the only one without an agenda outside of stopping Corypheus, and Solas… well, Solas was an elf, which was comforting, even if he was rather derisive toward Feyren’s people – but it did nothing to curb an ever-present feeling of anxiety. He would not be quiet about being Dalish, about believing in his own gods and not the Maker _or_ Andraste, but would that just make the shems turn on him sooner? It was a dangerous balancing act, being the Dalish Herald of Andraste.

And now he was here, being offered help by Tevinter mages. If there had been _anything_ that made him want to turn around and simply walk back to his clan, abandoning the Inquisition, this was it. His choice was now between working with the Templars or working with Tevinter mages, and, frankly, he was leaning towards the Templars.

Cassandra made some comment about how he should be careful, as though he didn’t already know, and Dorian commented on how suspicious his friends were. It took every diplomatic bone in his body, along with a deep breath and a call upward to Mythal, not to make a snide comment. Instead, he went about his business, asking questions in the most polite tone he could muster. Everything he said and asked was solely meant to increase his understanding of the situation, a very business-like affair. That was how he kept things these days. How different it was from the way he used to be.

Finally, their business was concluded, and he headed out of the Chantry with Cassandra, Vivienne, and Bull at his side.

"I’m not sure I trust that Dorian fellow,” Cassandra remarked, eyes scanning as they always did. She bordered on twitchy, while Vivienne and Bull both exuded calm (even if it was a very different type).

Vivienne shook her head. “Nor I. You will do what you see best, my dear, but I cannot imagine the consequences of siding with these rebel mages. _Certainly_ not now that Tevinter is involved.”

"Don’t have a problem with the mages,” Bull chimed in, hulking form blocking Feyren from the harsh wind coming from the sea, “but these Vints, boss, you can’t trust ‘em. There are very few exceptions, and I’m not sure that Pavus guy is one of them.”

Feyren didn’t say anything for a moment, instead walking silently down the path and back towards camp. He was aching, every part of him; they hadn’t been back to Haven in weeks, and all their days were spent walking and fighting. All he wanted was to feel the familiar rock of the aravel, to be covered in great bear pelts as the halla guided his clan to their next destination. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel it again. What a simple thing to miss, and yet, he did. It hurt worse than the ache of his muscles.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he replied finally, swallowing. “We’ll discuss it with the others back at Haven.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Inquisitor did not like him. That much was fairly clear to Dorian and had been even before they’d made it to Skyhold. He had ended up coming to help the mages after all, but refused to be anything other than completely robotic in conversation. There were moments – such as when they were rescuing Solas and Varric from that future hellscape and the elf had shown a great level of concern for his friends – where it was clear to Dorian that robotic _wasn’t_ Feyren’s constant state, so he was led to wonder what it was about him that the elf disliked so much. He had his suspicions, of course, and they were confirmed during a conversation with the Inquisitor (which had only occurred because Dorian practically cornered him in the library when Feyren was looking for a book).

“So I take it you’re… Dalish? Is that the correct word here?”

Feyren seemed to tense instantly. “‘Dalish’ is the correct word everywhere,” he replied stiffly, alerting Dorian to the fact that he had to tread even more carefully than he expected, and _that_ was saying something.

“We… don’t have Dalish clans coming northward. For obvious reasons.” Feyren tensed even further, but Dorian pressed onward. If this was what the problem was, he’d like to address it head-on. “So I’ve never met one of your people before. Although I’ve heard about them. A little.” There was a pause, during which Feyren stayed silent, so Dorian continued. “I hope this won’t be an issue between us. I _am_ here to help you deal with the Venatori, after all.”

“And I appreciate your help,” Feyren replied, but with such a flat intonation that it sounded nothing like he actually meant it.

Dorian sighed, hesitating for a moment before speaking again. “Look, Inquisitor, if you take issue with me, I would rather you say it up front. I respect the truth far more than empty pleasantries.”

Feyren frowned and appraised him for a moment, expression hard. Finally, he spoke, and for once, his tone was not the strained one of someone forced to be polite. “If you would prefer the truth, then I’ll gladly give it to you. I take no issue with you, Dorian, but nor do I trust you. Perhaps I would feel differently if I got to know you better, but the fact that you’re a mage from Tevinter is enough to make me feel I likely will never _desire_ to know you better.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He was, of course, used to people disliking him on principle, but this felt different. Strangely enough, it felt more personal, though he knew that made little sense. “You do realize that’s the same thing as me not liking you just because you’re an elf?”

The glare Feyren gave in response could have burned down a village. Were he a mage, Dorian would be awfully afraid it actually might. “No,” he replied, scathing. “It isn’t.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off, practically stomping down the stairs. Moments later, Dorian heard the hushed tones of Solas’ voice, along with the barely-contained rage of Feyren’s (so different from usual!), and that was the last conversation they’d had.

It had been a couple of weeks since then.

They didn’t talk further, just as Feyren had said, though Dorian hadn’t pushed much. After all, he was smart enough to know where he was not wanted, even though he couldn’t help but find himself intrigued by the Inquisitor.

Thankfully, the elf was not childish enough to sideline him. He took Dorian on missions when it was appropriate, in order to balance the team or to give another mage a chance to rest. Nothing about his behavior made Dorian think that he was leaving him out of things on purpose, and for that, he was both grateful and impressed. Dorian… Well, Dorian knew how to be petty, so he was glad the Inquisitor seemed beyond it himself.

Of course, that wasn’t to say that he was _always_ happy about being brought along. Such was the case that day, when they were gallivanting about the Storm Coast in the pouring rain. It was hell on his hair, and the sound and smell of the ocean were making him rather ill, but he refused to complain. Instead, he trudged along behind the Inquisitor, attempting to distract himself with the view that the position gave him.

Though the two were at odds, Dorian was too shallow not to appreciate a pretty thing as it was presented to him, and Feyren definitely fell into that category. He had a similar frame to other elves, lithe and long, but there was a strength to him as well, particularly in his arms and shoulders. His eyes were a rather unnerving shade of violet, seeming most unnatural to Dorian, whose experience with elves was limited. Apparently, this was not an unusual occurrence. Then there was the… markings on his face, the vallaslin (the pronunciation sounded sloppy and stumbling, even just in his mind). The black ink resembled a bow and arrow, and Dorian had heard it was a reference to some Dalish god.

Perhaps his most notable feature was his hair. It was a light auburn color, and Maker, was there a lot of it. On the days where they were stuck in Skyhold, Feyren kept half of it in an intricate braid while the other was left to a natural wave down his back. But days like these, where they were out fighting and exploring, it was contained in a bun with some simple braiding down the side. Dorian had heard some of the men mutter about how feminine it seemed, how unlike a warrior to take such pride and care in his hair. It made him wonder if it was simply a physical trait that Feyren prided himself on, or if there was some sort of cultural or religious significance to the braiding.

It was not the first time that Dorian wondered something like that about the Inquisitor, about the Dalish, but after their last conversation, he did not feel welcome to ask. He considered reading a book about it, but all the books in the library on the subject were written by humans, so he was sure that a significant amount of the information would be inaccurate.

His thoughts had carried him too far from the present moment and he was suddenly bumping into Varric, who had suddenly stopped in front of him. Instead of his usual “watch it”, Varric just turned to frown at him, and Dorian cast an apologetic glance before looking up to see why they had paused.

Feyren was lining up a shot, bowstring pulled taut and expression one of complete focus as he stared down a nearby ram. While they had some food rationed that they took with them when they left Skyhold, the troops around the area were in shorter supply and, as these were mostly soldiers rather than hunters or fishermen, they rarely got any fresh food. It was not unusual for the Inquisitor to bring them back some meat. He’d heard Josephine mention that the elf had been a hunter for his clan, a provider. Apparently, old habits died hard.

The ram went down as soon as the arrow whistled through the air and struck its lethal blow. Feyren lowered his bow and approached it, making sure that it was dead before pulling out his arrow and wiping it off in the grass. Then he was kneeling beside the dead ram, the way that he did whenever he killed an animal.

Normally, Dorian just watched Feyren or glanced around to cover them, but this time, he could not help but feel impatient as the elf bowed his head, beginning to murmur quietly. While they’d been walking along the coast, they’d seen a dragon flying overhead, and its roar could be heard often, making its presence known. He wasn’t overly fond of the idea of them having to fight a high dragon, especially simply because of this… ritual that Feyren had.

“There’s likely a dragon nearby. We should probably keep moving.”

The murmuring stopped, but only for a moment. Feyren did not look up, and Dorian felt mild annoyance (ignited by fear) swell within him as the elf continued.

“Must you do this every time?”

Varric elbowed him hard in the ribs, earning a glare from Dorian. However, Feyren did not stop this time, instead continuing his murmuring until he was finished. He threw the ram over his shouldes (he was surprisingly strong for someone so thin), stood, and leveled a look at Dorian that was surprisingly stern.

“If I take an animal’s life for the use of something else, for food or for armor or for warmth, it deserves to be shown gratitude at the very least,” he said, pursing his lips. “Though I rarely expect a shem, let alone a Tevinter altus, to understand the importance of valuing life outside of other shems.”

Dorian bristled instantly, defensiveness coupling with surprise. The Inquisitor had not been so openly antagonistic since their initial conversation about the Dalish, and even then, it felt nothing like this (Dorian had certainly never heard him use the word ‘shem’ before, a word he recognized as derogatory toward humans). Part of him even felt properly chastised.

Still, he was, as always, ready to come up with a retort, though everything he came up with sounded pitifully childish. _That was so long ago!_ seemed blatantly untrue when his countrymen were still capturing elves and selling them as slaves, and his race was still treating elves as though they were either an unfortunate blight upon the world or some exotic item to be gawked at. _I’m different!_ seemed a case of the lady-doth-protest-too-much. If he really was different, he supposed he should prove it rather than say it.

So he took a deep breath and said nothing, relishing the mild look of surprise it earned from Feyren. The elf turned and started moving back towards camp, and Solas brushed past Dorian with a barely-hidden smile on his face. These elves were going to kill him in his sleep, and he was half-sure he deserved it. 

* * *

 

They’d been back for another week since his… altercation with the Inquisitor, and the two hadn’t talked since. Dorian figured it was only fair, but, more than ever, he felt this… incessant itch to make things right. Normally, if people didn’t like him on principle, he’d avoid them, write them off. Once people had made up their mind, it was difficult to get them to change it, especially considering that the anti-Tevinter sentiment was so ingrained in the southern culture. But this felt… different. He felt compelled to make a better impression.

So perhaps his invitation to Varric for a game of Wicked Grace wasn’t without ulterior motivations. But after he agreed to bet his last bottle of Tevinter wine, Varric seemed willing enough to go along with it. They sat at the common table, making pleasant conversation (along with friendly jibes, but they were both nothing if not competitive) about Skyhold, about their latest tasks, about the other people they worked with until Dorian found a chance to work up to the topic he’d been interested in discussing the entire time.

“So… about the Inquisitor.”

Varric let out a laugh, glancing up from his cards. “And there it is. I was wondering how long it would take us to get there.”

Dorian made a face but didn’t respond to the comment. Instead, he pushed forward. “What is his issue? Aside from you, Solas, Josephine, and Cole, he seems pretty stand-offish towards… well, _everyone_. Always polite but never personable. Well, except for the times when he _isn't_ polite to me.” He sniffed. “I’ve certainly never done something to deserve such treatment, and I don’t appreciate being disliked on principle. It seems rather narrow-minded.”

“Sparkler,” Varric replied, leveling a surprisingly serious look at him, “I don’t want to accuse you of having an empathy problem, but… Well. Try to look at things from his perspective. He’s Dalish; all he’s ever known is his clan, and suddenly, he’s surrounded by humans, along with the odd dwarf and city elf. Not only that, but everyone’s saying he’s the herald of a god and of a religion he doesn’t believe in, then getting their feathers all ruffled when he informs them of that. Doesn’t help that there are only two other elves in the main party, and not only are neither of them Dalish, but Sera avoids him because she thinks he’s too ‘elfy’, and Solas is probably one of the most aloof people I’ve ever met, even after you befriend the guy. I imagine the Inquisitor doesn’t feel like he has many allies here, and history would suggest that being an elf surrounded by humans – especially an elf that refuses to conform to human society – is extremely dangerous. I mean, the last noteworthy Dalish elf had to _slay an archdemon_ for humans to take her seriously, and I still hear people calling her a knife-ear.”

Dorian said nothing, just staring at his cards and digesting what Varric just said. He did, of course, feel like an insensitive ass for not truly considering all of this sooner. It wasn’t as though he never acknowledged the fact that Feyren was Dalish or that his people were oppressed – of course he had – but perhaps it took someone else saying it. Besides, he’d never really been forced to think from the perspective of an elf; he had often just assumed he thought of them as any other person, which he supposed was both good and bad. All this talk he did about defeating stereotypes of those from Tevinter, but he had failed to _really_ consider that some of those were rightly earned, especially as far as Feyren was concerned.

The silence apparently dragged on too long, and Varric spoke again. “Just think about it, Sparkler. You’re not the oppressed party here. If he has reservations about you being a Tevinter mage, both ancient and recent history – hell, even current events – suggest he has a point.”

“I… see,” Dorian replied, swallowing. “I may have failed to recognize this.”

“Yeah. You may’ve.” Varric chuckled, setting his cards down. A near-perfect hand. “You also failed to win.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Leave it to you to take advantage of me during a heartfelt conversation.”

“Heartfelt conversation? More like me schooling you on the importance of empathy, which I never thought _I’d_ be the one to do,” he replied, earning a scoff from Dorian. He simply grinned in response. “I expect that bottle of Tevinter wine in my quarters before the end of the day.”

* * *

 

The conversation with Varric left him feeling guilty, but also with a new determination to do better. If he was going to gain the trust of their fearless leader, it was necessary, and, for whatever reason, he wanted that more than few things he ever had. He was determined to at least make an attempt to be friendly with the Inquisitor, to show that he was willing to understand and to listen. He'd been doing a piss-poor job of it, and he had to amend that. 

He made his way into the common hall and glanced around. It was toward the end of meal time, so many people had cleared out, but, as he expected, the Inquisitor was still there. He took a table by himself, as usual; nearly everyone was too intimidated by his status to sit with him. Occasionally, Solas or Varric joined him, but such was not the case today (which he was rather thankful for). So, grabbing stew and a piece of bread, Dorian made his way over to the table.

"May I sit?"

Feyren looked up, at first startled, then immediately wary. "I suppose," he replied, after a moment's pause. Dorian was pleasantly surprised; he thought he would be immediately rejected. So he took his seat across from the Inquisitor, saying nothing and eating his stew. He didn't look at Feyren, but he could feel the man's eyes on him, likely still trying to figure out his motives. Dorian ate silently for another couple of minutes before finally wiping his mouth with a napkin and looking up at Feyren. Violet eyes met his almost instantly. 

"I would like to apologize," Dorian said, which earned him a raised eyebrow and a disbelieving expression. He continued on. "My behavior at the Storm Coast was thoughtless, and I'm afraid I haven't been making the best impression. Your feelings toward my country are completely valid."

"I know that," Feyren said quickly, borderline snapping at him. Dorian's hackles raised, but he forced them down. Feyren was on the defensive, and he couldn't be blamed for that. 

"Of course. I'm just telling you that  _I_ know that. And I understand if you never wish to have more than a professional relationship, but I would like to at least try to be... friendly. If not friends."

There was a pause, during which it was the Inquisitor's turn to quietly eat his stew. Dorian sat in more nerves and anticipation than he'd like to admit, both of which immediately dissolved when Feyren said, "If you would like to sit with me at dinner again, you're welcome to."

Dorian beamed, and Feyren's eyes quickly shifted to the table. "I would. Thank you."

A new start, then. He could do with a new start. 


	3. Chapter 3

Their first few dinners were… awkward. That was the only way to put it. Dorian tried for conversation a couple of times, but it never really seemed to hit the mark. It didn’t take long for him to realize that silence was what was necessary at the moment, which was uncomfortable but manageable. If Feyren wasn’t ready to talk, then he wasn’t ready to talk.

It took about a week – seven long but growing-less-uncomfortable-by-the-day dinners – before Feyren actually spoke to him first. And the question was not one he was expecting.

“Your… armor. What is it made out of? The soft material, I mean.”

It took Dorian a shamefully long time to respond, due to how startled he was. But once he realized he hadn’t responded, he rushed to amend it. “Oh! Uh, it’s royal sea silk. Fairly common in the Imperium.”

“You wearing it was the first time I’ve seen it,” he remarked. “Vivienne wears it too, sometimes. It’s… nice looking. The silver is very beautiful.”

So the Inquisitor liked a bit of luxury. That was good to know. “I’ve heard your clan is very open to trading with humans, that you do it often. Had you never seen it then?”

Feyren chuckled (a very nice sound, Dorian noted) and shook his head. “I never engaged in the trade directly. Besides, even if I had, there’s no possible way our Keeper would have allowed me to get any. It’s a very… human fabric.”

“How so?”

“Very pretty, but not necessarily the most functional.”

Dorian snorted at that. “Sometimes it’s nice to have beautiful things. Not everything is about function.”

“It is with the Dalish,” Feyren replied, shrugging as he tore off a piece of his bread. “We move constantly, so we have to pack light. And if the things we carry aren’t functional, they’re just extra weight. Or… well, we’re sentimental, too, I suppose. Very sentimental. But not frivolous.”

Dorian made a noise of understanding, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of potato. “Well, you’re the Inquisitor now. I think your life is so inherently anti-frivolity at the moment that you deserve an entire outfit of royal sea silk, and no one can say anything about it.”

That earned him a smile, and he relished it, however small it was. “Perhaps you’re right, Dorian,” Feyren replied as he gathered his things. “Anyway… thank you. For joining me for dinner.”

“Of course. Have a lovely evening, Inquisitor.”

Feyren shot him another smile – more polite than anything – before taking his dishes and presence away.

The conversation had been very surface-level, and, by most standards, perhaps rather bland, but Dorian was practically rolling over on the floor in delight. Feyren had actually spoken to him! Engaged him in pleasant conversation! It was a miracle, that much was certain, and he couldn’t keep the stupid smile off his face as he finished up his meal. 

* * *

Their next few dinners were much the same. Conversations about delightfully meaningless things like the outfits of the Inquisition soldiers, Dorian’s last game of Wicked Grace with Varric, silly stories from the Dalish clan. Every short, fifteen-minute conversation set Dorian spinning in a very embarrassing way. He’d never been so happy to talk to someone in his life. He supposed it had something to do with how hard he’d worked to get them there, but also, it was… well, Feyren. He was quietly witty and unbelievably intelligent, on top of being kind. Dorian was surprised to learn, from the stories the other man told, that he wasn’t actually shy; he’d just been put into an uncomfortable environment.

So as Feyren recounted the time he danced around camp and accidentally caught himself on fire, and the time he told all the Dalish children that all humans had a third eyeball where the Dalish had bellybuttons, Dorian found that he was growing to consider this man a friend. Not just the Inquisitor, not just a very attractive man he’d like to get to know better, but as a genuine friend. It was… nice.

Maybe that was what made him bold enough to ask one day: “So, that thing you do. When you kill an animal. What exactly are you doing?”

Feyren tensed a little bit, likely remembering the last time the subject came up. However, it was nothing compared to the way he’d reacted when Dorian so much as entered a room before they started their dinners, so he counted it as a win. Yes, Dorian knew their relationship hadn’t left thin ice, but there was a sick sort of thrill in letting a fireball hover just inches above to thaw it faster. “I apologize that it’s necessary to kill them, and I thank them for giving their life so that others may live,” he replied, voice slow and careful as it often was. If there was one thing Dorian had learned about Feyren in this short time, it was that the man was always deliberate in choosing his words. Dorian, who often fell on the very opposite end of that particular spectrum, couldn’t imagine. “And I pray to Falon’Din to carry them safely to the Beyond.”

“Falon’Din?”

“An elven god. Like I said, he accompanies souls to the Beyond.”

“The Beyond. Is that the same thing as the Fade?”

“Yes, the Fade. Although… Well, we don’t think of it in the same way as the Chantry does. Not that I’m very familiar with Chantry teachings; I just know it’s different.”

“How so?”

Feyren finally paused, looking at Dorian with bemusement and a bit of hesitation. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?” Ah, a bit of that defensiveness had returned. Dorian was sad to see it, even if he understood. It made sense that it was only just returning now; though they’d talked about Feyren’s clan before, they hadn’t delved so much into Dalish culture or religion. This had the potential for judgment, perhaps.

“I’m just curious. As I’ve said, I’ve never met a Dalish before, and all the information we get is biased. Just fascinating, is all. If you would prefer we talk about something else, we can.”

Feyren stared at Dorian for a couple moments longer before sighing. “I was taught that the Beyond was the home of the gods, and that, after Fen’Harel betrayed them, they were locked away in the Eternal City.”

“Who is Fen’Harel?”

Feyren chuckled and shook his head. “You ask a lot of questions, you know.”

Dorian grinned. “I’m a curious fellow, what can I say?”

“A lot, apparently,” Feyren replied, and Dorian realized that the man was teasing him. Hm. That was new. His grin widened.

“Well, you aren’t asking _me_ any questions. I’m just trying to keep the conversation moving.”

“Mm. Does that mean I have permission to subject _you_ to an interrogation, then?”

“Of course. Though I should say, if I was _actually_ interrogating you, you’d know.”

Feyren quirked an eyebrow at that. “Oh? How?”

“Well, we’d be in a dimly lit room. And there’d definitely be bondage involved.”

Feyren, who’d been taking a drink, all but spat it out, and Dorian worried if he’d gone too far. He’d done a truly miraculous job of not flirting with Feyren whatsoever, despite the fact that, in any other situation, he would have prepositioned the man already. But as Feyren got ahold of himself, his expression seemed more embarrassed than angry, a pretty flush making its way from his cheeks down his neck.

“Right. Uh. So. The Imperium!”

It took a few question and answer exchanges before Feyren’s face returned to its natural color, but still, Dorian paid close attention to how Feyren was acting, just to make sure things weren’t uncomfortable. Thankfully, all seemed well. Better than well, actually; they soon realized that they were the only two still sitting in the main hall, and that the candles were nearly down to nubs.

“Oh, I had no idea how late it was. I have to go over some reports,” Feyren said, standing up.

Dorian nodded, standing up as well. He found his legs were stiff; they must have been sitting and talking for hours. “Yes, I should probably go, too. There was some research I wanted to do about the rifts.”

Feyren gave a nod of understanding before beginning to move towards his room. However, he paused, looking back at Dorian. And for once, it seemed that Dorian had earned a genuine, full smile. He felt his heart pick up its pace, traitorous thing. “It was… nice. Talking to you, I mean. You…” He trailed off and Dorian watched the beginnings of a blush begin to form. “You’ve been a nice surprise.”

“As have you, Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, hoping his voice didn’t sound as… affectionate and nervous as it did to his own ears. He could hear the quiver in it, and he prayed it was lost on Feyren. “Thank you for spending your time talking to me.”

“My pleasure.” A pause, and he looked almost surprised as he added, “Honestly.” Giving a little shake of his head, he shot another smile at Dorian. “Have a good night, Dorian.”

“You as well, Inquisitor.”

Dorian turned to go, ready to make his way back to his room and think very deeply about what was currently going on in his psyche, when, behind him, the Inquisitor said, almost too quietly to hear, “My name is Feyren.”

When Dorian looked back, startled, to see that Feyren was blushing and looking… bashful. It was strange, he was such a pillar, so often stone cold, but it seemed he was melting a bit. Dorian supposed it only made things a little more even; after all, he felt like a pile of mush, sans brain, when he was around Feyren. “You can call me Feyren,” the Inquisitor said again, when there was too long of a pause.

“Right,” Dorian said, voice a rush so as not to create another uncomfortable silence. He was smiling now, and, again, hoped his affection didn’t show. “Well, good night then, Feyren.”

The elf shot him a small smile before hurrying out of the hall. Dorian watched him go, and even stared at the door to his chambers as it closed for a few seconds. Finally, he turned, only to be met with the amused gaze of Varric. The dwarf was sitting in his normal spot by the fire.

Dorian wiped his sugary expression off his face (he was sure it was there) and made his way as calmly as he could toward the door leading up to his spot in the library. “Say nothing, Varric.”

Varric looked delighted, holding back laughter. “Don’t think I have to, Sparkler.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter! Where it ended just felt right to me. I'll probably post another chapter sooner than I would normally to make up for it. <3

Their happy bubble that the two of them had created within Skyhold couldn’t exist for long, however. The Inquisitor was still the Inquisitor, with missions and tasks across all of Thedas. It was remarkable they’d been able to stay for the full week and a half they had; Feyren had spent that time dispatching troops, spies, and favors from nobles to finish tasks he could not complete himself.

 Now, though, they (yes, Dorian was lucky enough to be chosen for this particular jaunt, and he was trying not to let it make him hopeful) were going to recruit the horse master from the Hinterlands to come to their impressive stables in Skyhold, as well as finish setting up camps around the area for their troops and sealing some rifts.

That was not all, though. Feyren was a bit notorious for doing little favors for people along the way; sending a beloved ram home, fetching a potion for a man’s ailing wife, delivering a phylactery and news to the lover of a dead Templar. Dorian used to assume this was just a method of spreading the Inquisition’s influence, but he soon realized that it was really just Feyren being… well, himself. He was genuinely dedicated to helping people, particularly the downtrodden elves or mages.

Such was the case then, Feyren suddenly going still as he glanced at a small shrine on a hill. “Wait a moment, there’s something I have to do.”

Dorian watched as the Inquisitor – Herald of Andraste, closer of the Breach, whose growing power was both respected and feared by nobles in Orlais and Ferelden alike – knelt down at the shrine and began gingerly cleaning it of dirt and leaves until it was clear. Then, he pulled some flowers out of his pack and set them down on the grave, arranging them in a pleasing way. Finally, he bowed his head, murmured a few words, then stood and continued walking. Though he said nothing to the group, there was a sadness about him that was difficult to ignore. Varric and Dorian exchanged a look, but they kept quiet. Both could read their Inquisitor well by now.

Most questions Dorian had about the display were answered when they arrived back at Redcliffe, and Feyren moved with purpose down a slope toward a spot near the water. There, an elven man stood, wringing his hands and looking distraught. Feyren approached him, exuding that warm calm that he always did when talking to people in distress (but especially other elves), and Dorian could practically see it seep into the other man’s bones. Though Dorian was standing too far back to really hear the whole conversation (Feyren had long told all of his companions to give him space when he was talking to civilians, as being surrounded by four well-armed rogues, warriors, and mages was enough to put anyone off), he heard a mention of flowers, wives, and Falon’din. He could put the pieces together.

Dorian watched as Feyren took the man’s hands in his and said something in elven, violet eyes holding all the affection in the world for one of his own people. Something about it was sad, though; Dorian knew how much Feyren missed his clan, how much he suffered being away from them. He’d even heard whisperings that something was happening with the Lavellans in Wycome, that Feyren had to frantically send Inquisition troops to help protect them. And as Dorian’s understanding of the Dalish grew from his experiences and conversations with Feyren, he came to understand just how much being separated from his clan must hurt Feyren.

Dorian had never been one to be particularly adept at comforting others, but that night, when they’d set up camp and the other members of their party had turned in, he sat down at the fire beside Feyren and found that he wanted to try.

“What you did today, for that elven man. That was very kind of you,” he remarked, glancing over at Feyren as the other man poked at the fire with a stick. “Your existence seems entirely devoted to helping others, even in small ways such as that. It is… admirable.”

Feyren looked over at him, looking a little disbelieving (even with their recent breakthrough, Feyren’s trust of him was not completely established), but he smiled slightly and shrugged. “To that man, it’s not small. To that man, it consumes his every thought. If I can offer comfort to some of these people – especially some of _my_ people, who so often suffer – I want to do that. It does not take much time from one’s day to make the world a little softer.”

Not for the first time, Dorian felt shamed by Feyren’s goodness. The man, who he’d spent so much time thinking was aloof and cold, actually held the warmest heart of any man he’d ever met. He was _good_ , uncomplicated and unquestionable. Dorian was quiet for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say. All he could come up with was, “This world does not deserve you, Master Levallan.” Feyren laughed at that, giving a small shake of his head. However, Dorian’s face was serious, though there was that same affection he often carried (against his own will) when looking at Feyren. “I mean it.”

Feyren looked at him for a moment before turning away to stare at the fire. Dorian could see the blush forming along his cheeks. “Fen'Harel ma ghilana, Dorian. I am no different from any other man. I am fortunate the Creators blessed me with life, with the ability to put feet to soil, to put fingers to a bowstring, to put comforting voice to a suffering man, to _help_. I would be a disgrace to my Creators, to my clan—” His voice broke then, and Dorian’s heart broke a bit in response. “—if I did not do what I could with those gifts.”

Now Dorian _really_ didn’t know what to say. This whole time he’d been hoping for an opening where he could offer comfort to _Feyren_ , where he could tell him how sorry he was that this was happening. But every word set next to Feyren’s felt lacking. He swallowed and decided, speechless as he was, to take a chance on another form of comfort. Reaching over to where Feyren’s hand was resting, he covered it with his own, touch tentative. He heard Feyren’s breath catch, felt the man looking at him, but he only stared at the fire, holding his breath. It took a few moments – long, long moments – but then, he felt Feyren’s hand turn over, lacing their fingers together and giving his hand a squeeze. Message received.

And there they sat, hand-in-hand, as the fire turned to embers, and Dorian, the masochist, realized, more than ever before, that he was _royally_ screwed.


	5. Chapter 5

 

The rest of the trip was rather uneventful in comparison to that night. Of course, nothing was ever mentioned between them, and when their lookout shift was over, they went to their respective tents with quiet ‘good night’s.

But Dorian was still reeling. He never thought that something as simple as hand-holding could get his heart racing quite so intensely, but it did. That’s how he knew this was dangerous, this… thing he had for Feyren. Not only did he not know if the other man could ever be interested in him, specifically, he had no idea if Feyren was interested in men in general. Sure, the hand-holding could signify something, but that something could easily be simple friendship.

And Dorian felt he could say, fairly confidently, that there was a friendship to speak of. Yes, perhaps Feyren was still a bit uneasy around him, but they had made a lot of progress. Even if the Inquisitor didn’t fully trust him, he considered him someone he could talk to, spend time with. Dorian would take it, though he did hope they’d move further, even if a more trusting friendship was all he received.

The most difficult part was not being able to approach the situation the way he normally would. If this were anyone else, he’d flirt, unabashedly, and gauge the response. But this situation was much more delicate, and Dorian wasn’t ready to take that sort of a chance. No, if there were moves to be made, Feyren would have to make the first one. So their strange platonic arrangement it was, and Dorian would do his best not to think further on it.

Of course, he was failing miserably, but he hoped being back at Skyhold (and away from Feyren) would help.

His poor luck, however, seemed to hold. Much to Dorian’s surprise, just a day after they’d arrived back, Feyren appeared in the library. This, of course, was highly unusual; their meetings and chats tended to occur exclusively during their dinners. It wasn’t like they avoided each other, per se, but unless he was dropping off some things to be researched, Feyren didn’t come into the library often. Certainly not with the sole purpose of talking to him.

“Hi, Dorian,” he greeted, looking uncomfortable. Dorian couldn’t figure out if it was simply because he was approaching him in this space for the first time, or if it had something to do with the piece of parchment clutched in his hand. “How are you?”

Exchanging pleasantries. It was strange. Certainly very unlike them. It set Dorian’s teeth on edge. “Well hello, Feyren. I’m perfectly well, thank you. And yourself?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, rocking on his feet. There was a pause, and Feyren stared at the ground. “Um, so, I received a letter…”

“A letter?” For a moment, Dorian felt panic grip his heart; did it have something to do with Feyren’s clan? He’d been worried about it since he’d heard news of their troubles, worried for Feyren. He never thought that a clan of Dalish elves would be in his top five list of concerns, but there they were. “What sort of letter?”

Feyren shifted some more, looking even more uncomfortable (if such a thing were possible). “It’s… Well, it’s from your father.”

Oh. Well. That was unexpected. Dorian had only mentioned his father once to Feyren, when he asked why the man had left home, and he supposed it had pretty much closed the subject. He supposed calling his father a ‘hypocritical bastard’ had made the subject difficult to broach in their tentative friendship.

“From my father. I see. And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

“A meeting.”

Dorian’s anger flared. Trying not to show it, he said, through gritted teeth, “Show me this letter.”

To Feyren’s credit, he waited patiently as Dorian read and reread the letter, muttering grievances the entire time. He usually tried to watch any uptick in emotion around Feyren, especially negative ones, but he couldn’t handle it this time.

“‘I know my son’? What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble! This is so typical!”

Feyren, again to his credit, didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. “You and your family seem to have… bad blood.”

Dorian laughed bitterly. “Interesting turn of phrase. But yes, they don’t care for my choices, nor I for theirs.” Realizing he owed Feyren somewhat of an explanation if he was going to ask him to come to meet this “family retainer” (which he was, even if he had to come up with some outlandish theory that this retainer was actually an assassin, because he couldn’t do this alone), Dorian sighed and set the letter down. “There are plenty of reasons why my family isn’t pleased with me. I wasn’t the perfect son they wanted. I showed magical promise, I had all the makings of a good magister, except… Well, I didn’t want the life for myself they wanted for me. If they had their way, myself and some pretty girl from a good family would be making each other miserable right now. I certainly wouldn’t be making all this noise against Tevinter, nor would I have joined the dread Inquisition. So this… letter. I don’t understand it.”

“I see. I think you should meet with this retainer… find out what your family wants,” Feyren responded, and his voice was surprisingly kind. Soft around the edges. It made Dorian feel small, scared.

“Well, I didn’t ask what you thought, did I?” And in an instant act of impulsiveness and temper and fear of being too vulnerable, Dorian was reminded of why he didn’t deserve this man’s friendship. Feyren looked startled, but not angry. Instantly, Dorian deflated. “That was… unworthy. I apologize. There’s no harm in it, I suppose. Seeing what they have to say. But if I don’t like it, I want to leave.”

Feyren nodded. “Then we’ll leave.”

Dorian’s eyebrows raised at the ‘we’. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to construct theories of an assassin, after all. “You say ‘we’... Does that mean you’re coming along?”

Feyren shrugged, finally meeting Dorian’s gaze. He looked less guarded than usual, perhaps to make Dorian feel better about his own vulnerability. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone. If it’s some sort of Venatori plot, you’ll need back up. And even if it’s not… Well, I wouldn’t want you to have to do this alone.”

The response had Dorian feeling small again, which he detested. He didn’t like to feel as though he needed anyone else to feel strong enough to do something, he didn’t like to ask for help. But he knew better than to reject the offer when he needed it. “I… appreciate that, Feyren. You’re a good friend."

With a small but encouraging smile, Feyren shrugged. “You’re worthy of one,” he replied, and Dorian bit his tongue to keep from correcting him. No point in arguing, not when he needed him. “So. Back to the Hinterlands?”

“It would seem that way, yes.”

“I wanted more bear pelts, anyway."

* * *

 

The meeting with the fake retainer, who turned out to be his father, went both better and worse than expected. On one hand, everything had been laid out in front of Feyren in spectacularly dramatic fashion. The reason his family was ashamed of him, the blood magic, all of it. It was both mortifying and validating to see the look of disgust on Feyren’s face in response to that little gem. On the other hand, he had somehow been convinced by Feyren (“We can leave if you’d like,” he’d said, the epitome of empathy and calm, “but just keep in mind that if you don’t speak to him now, you may never get the chance to again.”) to give his father a chance to speak, and they had ended the evening, much to his confusion, shakily reconciled.

Feyren and Dorian didn’t talk about it until they were back at Skyhold again. The trip to Redcliffe had been short -- they’d left as soon as the business with his father was over -- and he had needed the travel time to himself, to think. Feyren, Maker bless him, knew how to read a room, and left him to his own devices as they rode back to Skyhold.

Now that they’d been back a day, though, he watched as the elf tentatively made his way over to Dorian’s nook. Most everyone had gone to sleep, but it seemed the two of them, as usual, were going to have a late night.

“Are you alright?”

Dorian smiled mirthlessly. “No. Not really.” He toyed with some of the fraying fabric on his armchair. “He says we’re alike. Too much pride. Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now... I’m not so certain.”

Though he wasn’t looking at him, he caught Feyren taking a step forward out of the corner of his eye. “What he tried to do… it was inexcusable. But I’m glad you talked to him, if only to bring yourself a little more peace.”

“It could have left me a drooling vegetable,” Dorian replied after a moment, voice thick with emotion. He cleared his throat. “But even if it hadn’t… I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

“I can’t imagine I would, either,” Feyren agreed, and Dorian smiled -- small but genuine -- at the implication that he did like him the way he was now. A silence fell over them as Dorian tried to figure out what to say. He supposed there was only one thing left to say.

“Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected, but… it’s something.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

Without hesitation, Feyren responded, and it hit Dorian like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. “I think you’re very brave.”

For the first time since the conversation started, Dorian’s head shot up so he could meet the other man’s eyes. “Brave?” he sputtered, disbelieving. The high praise of that, coming from someone like Feyren, was the last thing he was expecting. Moreover, the elf sounded almost… fond. It was the first time he’d ever sounded like that when talking to Dorian, and Dorian felt spoiled by it.

“It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.”

Dorian fell silent, gaping at Feyren like some sort of (very attractive) fish. The highest praise he’d ever received, and he could come up with no good response to it. Feyren didn’t seem to mind, though, instead moving to sit on the floor against the bookshelves, stretching his legs out. So familiar. They were friends, then. They must’ve been. Dorian’s brain was beginning to short circuit.

Finally, though, he pulled himself together enough to respond. “You may know a thing or two about that, I suppose.”

Feyren barked out a laugh. “Yes, well, someone’s got to keep you shems from destroying the world.”

Dorian responded with a laugh of his own, ducking his head and giving it a shake. There was another silence that passed (they were full of comfortable pauses now) before Dorian worked up the nerve to ask, "So, out of curiosity... how do the Dalish view men being with other men?"

The question was met with a bit of hesitation, which worried Dorian slightly, but Feyren answered before he could really start to spiral into assumptions that Feyren thought he was a sinful mess. "It's... complicated. The Dalish really value procreation, for obvious reasons. We want more elves, bigger clans. You have a responsibility to your clan to have a child, if possible. But the way clans are structured... All the adults are your parents, really. Everyone pitches in when raising the children. So it doesn't make a difference if their birth parents are actually together. You can choose to have a child with someone but bond with another person; that person's gender doesn't really matter. You might get a few raised eyebrows, but it's not something you'll get ostracized for as long as you do your duty to your clan."

"I see," Dorian replied, unsure how to feel about that. He understood it, of course, and he supposed it was better than people being kicked out of clan for who they loved, but the arrangement seemed so clinical. Still, he wasn't in a place to pass judgment, he supposed. "Was that at all common in your clan?"

Feyren shrugged. "Somewhat. It wasn't exactly _uncommon_ for men to have relationships with each other, but men who bonded -- married, I guess you'd say -- was a little rarer. Honestly, I wasn't sure what I'd do, if it ever came up."

Dorian's eyebrows quirked up at that. "What do you mean?"

"I've been with both women and men, and I don't have a preference," he said, extremely casual, like he wasn't very cruelly raising Dorian's hopes much higher than they should have been. "If I'd have fallen in love with a man, I'm not sure I would have been able to give it up over a sense of duty."

"Well," he began, rather uselessly. "That's rather romantic. I'm not sure I would have expected that from you."

The comment was met with a laugh and, from what Dorian could tell in the low light, a slight blush. Delightful. "I'm full of surprises. Don't you know that by now?"

"Yes," Dorian replied with a smile. "So I'm learning."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, folks! I just recently moved out of the country, so it's been a wild time. Hope you enjoy!

There were another two weeks of relative routine (if you could call claiming a fortress in Crestwood, defeating a dragon in the Hinterlands, and fighting alongside the Champion of Kirkwall routine), but everything was brought to a screeching halt when the Inquisitor began planning the attack on Adamant. Cullen was training troops relentlessly, Josephine was calling in favors with nobles to make sure they had the coin and supplies they needed, and Leliana was gathering enough information to make a confident assault possible.

And Feyren? Feyren was running himself into the ground.

He didn’t eat dinner with Dorian anymore, but, as far as Dorian knew, he wasn’t eating _period_. He’d asked around as casually as he could manage, and it did seem that no one had seen him in the main hall for meals all week, nor had the kitchen attendants seen him.

And while, normally, Dorian wasn’t the mother hen type, he felt compelled to do _something_ about this predicament. So in the evening, he made up a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread, along with a rather large pitcher of water, and went up to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

The man, as Dorian expected, was hunched over his desk in a rather uncomfortable position, looking between a map of Adamant and a stack of papers. He appeared to be on the brink of total exhaustion, and, perhaps most surprising of all, his hair was falling down his shoulders, contained by neither bun nor braid. It was both beautiful and startling.

“Feyren,” Dorian called, and the Inquisitor started, head shooting up to look at him. “It’s time to take a break.”

Feyren’s eyes narrowed, and Dorian could practically see the other man dig his heels into the ground. Luckily, Dorian could dig deeper. “I don’t have time for a break, we’re attacking Adamant in _two days_.”

“And you’ve been preparing for weeks,” Dorian reminded him, moving to set the tray and pitcher on a small table near the loveseat. Then he sat down, crossing his legs and staring at Feyren expectantly. The man didn’t move, and Dorian proceeded to sigh, waving him over. “Come. I’m not leaving until I see you eat and drink, and I plan to be insufferable the entire time I’m here.”

“No different from usual then,” Feyren grumbled. Instead of being offended, as he may have been just some short weeks ago, Dorian gave him a blinding smile. It took a few long moments - a bit of a battle of wills as they stared each other down - but thankfully, Feyren seemed too tired and hungry to be _really_ stubborn. He sighed and pulled himself up from his desk, moving to sit by Dorian.

What happened next was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Feyren proceeded to scarf down his food, so fast it was almost as though his mouth was a vacuum. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was because he hadn’t been eating or because he wanted to appease Dorian so he would go away, but regardless, it was quite the display.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Dorian informed him, quirking an eyebrow. “Slow down.”

Feyren shot him a dirty look, but he did do as suggested, taking time to chew his grape with exaggerated slowness. Dorian couldn’t help but smile; it was rare to see Feyren acting like a petulant child. Usually, he was too busy being Inquisitor to be anything other than a Very Responsible Adult. At least, that was how he seemed to Dorian.

Dorian was silent as the Inquisitor ate and drank, not wanting to make his bad mood worse by saying the wrong thing. He was fully planning to leave as soon as the man was finished, because, well, he was no use in situations like these. Comfort was not his forte. But sassing Feyren until he took care of himself? That he could do.

Eventually, Feyren’s plate was cleared and his water was gone, so Dorian began to stand up when he felt Feyren’s hand gripping his wrist. When he looked down, the man was staring hard at the tray. “Stay. For just a couple of minutes.” A beat, and then, softly, sadly, “Please.”

Dorian slowly lowered himself back down into his spot, brow furrowing in concern. Again, he was… unaccustomed to seeing the Inquisitor like this. So tired, so… hopeless looking. Dorian didn’t know what to say, so he just sat.

It was a minute or so before Feyren broke the silence. He sounded exhausted, pained. “Dorian, you know I think of you as a friend, yeah? Someone I care about.”

Dorian’s eyebrows furrowed even more. “I… yes. Of course, Feyren. I know.”

“Good.” He still wasn’t looking at Dorian, just staring hard at the ground. “I’m not… I can’t apologize for the things I said at the beginning. I still think it was valid to distrust a Tevinter mage, I still think it was _smart_ , all things considered.”

“I understand,” Dorian replied, because he did now. Not completely, because he could never understand completely, but his talk with Varric and subsequent talks with Feyren had helped. “I don’t expect you to be sorry for that.”

“I know you don’t.” Feyren was quiet for a long moment, and then, finally, he lifted his head to look up at Dorian. He looked exhausted, yes, and sad, but underneath it was that fire of determination that he’d grown accustomed to in Feyren’s expression. “But I wanted to tell you that, while I may not have been wrong about many of your people, I was wrong about you. You have shown me that you’re a good man. A very good man, and a very good friend. And I want you to know that I _do_ trust you now.”

Dorian was perturbed. On one hand, he was pleased to hear that Feyren trusted him, but on the other… this sounded too much like the last words of a dying man. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Feyren, but… why are you saying it?”

The man smiled mirthlessly at him before ducking his head again. It was quiet for a moment, and then, “I’m not taking you with me at Adamant. You’re going to stay out of the center and fight on the perimeter.”

“ _What_?” Dorian gaped at the Inquisitor, feeling anger stir within him. “But… why? I’ve been with you every step of the way, meeting Stroud in Crestwood, fighting the demons in the Western Approach. I wanted to see this through to the end. Why are you pushing me out now?”

Feyren sighed, but he didn’t seem surprised. “Because if you’re there, I won’t be able to focus.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means exactly what I said.”

“What, because we’re friends? Because you’re worried about me? I can protect myself, Feyren. I’ve been doing it for a very long time.”

“I _know_ that,” he shot back. Then he deflated a bit, looking away. “I know that. But I can’t… this time, I can’t do it. There’s too much risk, and I can’t be looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

Dorian grit his teeth, quietly seething. He stared hard at the floor, trying to think of a way to convince Feyren, but the man seemed like he wasn’t going to give in this time. Taking a deep breath, Dorian turned his glare onto Feyren. “Who _are_ you planning to take, then?”

“Blackwall, Solas, and Varric.”

“ _Varric_?” Dorian’s temper flared, and he did not hide his displeasure the way he normally would, when he was trying to impress Feyren. They were beyond that now. “He’s your closest friend here, and you’re taking _him_? What, do you think he’s more capable than I am? Do you trust him to take care of himself, but not me?”

“It’s _different_ ,” Feyren replied helplessly.

“How?”

Feyren faltered. “It… just is.”

Dorian was unmoved, expression flat as he crossed his arms over his chest to physically display his stubbornness. “If you don’t tell me how, I’m not going to let it go.”

“Please, Dorian,” Feyren replied, voice quiet, pleading. Dorian had never heard him sound like that before. “I… I don’t know why it’s different. It feels different. I’m _scared_ when I see you fighting. I…” He dipped his head down, his hair like a waterfall of fire around him, and some of Dorian’s anger subsided. However frustrating it was to Dorian, he knew that Feyren meant well. He really just didn’t want to see him get hurt. But why _him,_  specifically?

Hesitantly, Dorian put his hand on Feyren’s shoulder but said nothing. The man took in a shaky breath and lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and Dorian knew he meant it. “I’m just so… terrified, Dorian. Of this whole thing. I try to look like I know what I’m doing, but I have no fucking clue. _None_. At all. I just have this stupid magic mark on my hand, and it’s the only thing that makes me special.”

“No,” Dorian said quickly, sternly, and Feyren looked up in surprise. Dorian’s expression was deathly serious. “ _No_ , Feyren. You are so much more than that. Do you think these people would follow you if you were just someone who could close the rifts? Maker, do you have any idea who and what you are? I’ve never met a man with a stronger sense of morality, of justice, of… for goodness sake, _philanthropy_. You care about people, you believe in people, why can’t you do the same for yourself?” Feyren’s gaze shifted to the ground, uncomfortable, but Dorian continued, his hand shifting from its place on Feyren’s shoulder to the middle of his back. “You are a hero not because of your ability, but because of your character. You are _good_ , you are strong, and you are what we need. I have every bit of faith in you.”

It was quiet then, for a long time, and Dorian wondered if his fervor was too… much. But after a while, Feyren reached out to take his right hand. Instead of holding it, however, he turned it so his palm was up and leaned in to kiss it, just in the middle. It was a soft brush of lips, and Dorian could feel his hand tingle as Feyren curled his fingers into a fist. There was a weak smile on his face.

“Dalish tradition,” he said, holding Dorian’s fist for a moment before letting go. There was something slightly… uncomfortable about his expression, and Dorian worried that it was about him. “Before battle, friends and family will kiss the palms of a warrior’s dominant hand and close their fist to hold it. Sort of a blessing, to help the person carry their affection and their faith with them.” He was quiet, long enough that Dorian was tempted to say _anything_ , before he spoke again. “I have some things to think about, Dorian. But thank you. For the food and for… everything.”

Dorian felt blindsided, in a haze. He’d meant to argue more about not getting to go with the Inquisitor, but it all seemed a bit small now. The last thing he wanted to do was give the other man grief for something so small, not when he had so much grief of his own. So he nodded and stood, stretching out his fingers. His hand still tingled from where Feyren had kissed it. And, before he could think better of it, he blurted: “You know I’d do anything for you, Inquisitor.” Frighteningly enough, he meant it. “I’m willing to die for the Inquisition. For you. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Feyren gave him a surprisingly fervent look, setting his jaw. He seemed to take a deep breath before responding. “That may be so. But if you have to die, Creators help the being that causes it.” His dark look turned away from Dorian. “Fen’Harel would be kinder than I.”

Dorian, surprised and terrified and half in love with him, turned away and walked back to the library.


	7. Chapter 7

Dorian was sure that Feyren was dead. He was _sure._

Feyren, true to his word, had left him out of the battle at Adamant, so Dorian was forced to watch from the sidelines. And what he saw had, of course, led him to this conclusion. Feyren, falling through a rift, into the Fade. To his presumable death. No, _assured_ death

And Dorian was not handling it well. Or maybe, as far as the rest of the Inquisition was concerned, he was handling it perfectly. No demon or corrupted Warden who came into his path lived for long; he was like a man possessed. It was what happened when anger and pain and shock didn’t have time to manifest the usual way. Instead, they turned into dizzying bloodshed.

He was just blasting a fireball (which was probably more than what was required, frankly) at a sloth demon when he heard someone yell, “The Inquisitor!”

His head whipped around and, lo and behold, Feyren was closing the rift and killing the demons in one fell swoop. Like some sort of hero from a fairy tale. Dorian could feel all the breath leave his body and he fought against the wobbling of his knees. When had this happened? When had his sanity and basic functions become so dependent on the well-being of someone else? It was a dangerous thought indeed.

Feyren made some rousing speech about how Stroud died as a hero, then proceeded to give the Grey Wardens a second chance (a mistake, as far as Dorian was concerned, but a very compassionate, Feyren-like mistake) before finally turning in Dorian’s direction. Solas was behind him, giving Dorian a thoughtful look that he couldn’t quite decipher. But Dorian was much more focused on Feyren, who looked seconds away from collapsing but was clearly holding it together for the sake of everyone else.

Dorian wasn’t sure what he should do, hesitating for a second when all he _wanted_ to do was throw himself at Feyren, fuss over him, make sure he was alright. But his hesitation evaporated when the other man made his way over and pulled him into a crushing hug, putting practically all his weight on him.

“I thought you were dead,” he muttered, and now that Dorian was holding him, he could feel the way the other man was shaking.

Dorian wrapped his arms around him more firmly. “Me? I thought _you_ were dead. You were in the _Fade_.”

“Don’t talk about it,” he said, burying his face in Dorian’s neck. “Not now. Please.”

Dorian was all too happy to comply, rubbing gentle circles into Feyren’s back. “Come now. Let’s get you to your tent.”

It took a bit to actually accomplish that, what with him having to wave off Cassandra and Cullen, who were ready to begin talking the Inquisitor’s ear off. He must have looked convincingly stern, because they backed away quickly. It probably also helped that the Inquisitor was leaning into his side, looking pale as a sheet and shaking whenever he didn’t have the energy to stop himself from doing so (which was often).

But eventually, they made it to his tent and Feyren all but collapsed on his bedroll, still trembling. Dorian poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and wet a cloth, beginning to wipe dirt and blood and whatever else off of Feyren’s body.

“Shh, Feyren, it’s alright. It’s okay. You’re alive, I'm alive, everything’s alright,” Dorian murmured, trying to be as soothing as possible. It didn’t seem to be working, but he persisted, continuing to give as much encouragement as he could while cleaning Feyren off. Eventually, the shaking subsided a bit, and Feyren was as clean as he could be under the circumstances.

“Do you want to change clothes?” Dorian asked, glancing at the small trunk in the corner that likely held what Feyren had brought. The man smelled of death and smoke and something strange, something that made him feel uneasy. Some leftover scent of the Fade, perhaps? He couldn’t imagine it would make Feyren feel better.

As he suspected, the man gave a silent nod, and Dorian fished out a new tunic and trousers. It was too cold at night to go without clothes, but these seemed comfortable enough to do. Dorian scooted back over and hesitated, turning over the clothes in his hands. “Do you need me to…?”

“No,” Feyren said, but he sounded unconvinced. “I… I can do it. But can you… can you still stay?”

“Of course,” he said, even though he was dying to wash up too. He averted his eyes when Feyren began undressing, busying himself by wiping off some blood from his armor. Suddenly, however, there was a hiss of pain from Feyren, and Dorian’s gaze snapped up to see the man, bare-chested, with a wound on his shoulder.

“It’s… fine. One of the terrors just grabbed me from behind and punctured my armor. It’s not bad,” he assured him, though the way he was moving and his pained expression suggested otherwise.

Dorian shifted closer. “Well, my healing ability is close to nonexistent, but I think I can manage one puncture wound. If I may?”

Feyren looked like he was about to argue but then thought better of it, instead shifting closer to Dorian, who got to work immediately. It was good that he had something to focus on now, because if he hadn’t, he might have spent too long looking at Feyren’s chest, the strong muscles of his back and arms, the freckles and scars that dotted his skin. And now? Now was certainly not the time.

It didn’t take much energy to patch him up, and soon the only evidence of an injury was a pink mark. “There. Better?”

Feyren rolled his shoulder and gave Dorian a tired, strained smile. “Yeah. Thank you, Dorian.” He reached for his tunic, slipping it on over his head and laying back on his bedroll. “I… it’s been a long day. For everyone. I understand if you want to go back to your tent.”

It didn’t feel quite like a dismissal. More that he’d feel bad if he didn’t at least give Dorian the option. “Do you want me to go back to my tent?”

“I want you to do whatever you need to.”

“That’s not an answer, Feyren.”

Feyren hesitated before sighing. “I… would rather not be alone.”

Dorian gave a firm nod. “Okay. Then I’m not going anywhere.” He took off the more cumbersome parts of his armor and set his staff in the corner of the tent before settling down next to Feyren. They were close together - closer together than they’d ever been - and suddenly, all the relief hit him at once. Feyren was alive. His dear friend was _alive_. He could feel tears well up in his eyes, a few spilling, and he could only hope that the other man wouldn’t notice. Or, at least, would have the decency to keep silent about it.

They laid there in silence for a while, neither of them feeling particularly compelled to say anything. Exhaustion settled in their bones, heavy as lead, but neither found sleep so quickly. Finally, Feyren said, with surprisingly good humor, “Bet you’re glad I didn’t take you along now, huh?”

Dorian barked out a laugh, which was cut short by the feeling of Feyren taking his hand for the second time ever. Their fingers laced together. “Can’t say I’m too pleased to have missed a frolic through the Fade, no.”

Feyren made a noise of acknowledgment but said nothing more, and so they laid together, heavy with exhaustion and the mutual understanding that this outcome - them, together and holding hands, alive and no worse for wear - had been painfully unlikely. Dorian gripped his hand harder, and Feyren responded in turn.

* * *

Dorian was beyond pleased to be back in his library. The familiar smell of old books was a drastic improvement over the smell of fire and death. Besides, he had an idea about how to make Corypheus less appealing to Tevinter, but it would require a significant amount of research. He was flipping through a copy of the Malefica Imperio (and thoroughly detesting it) when suddenly:

“Words pool in his mouth, aching to be said, but they taste like the blood of his people, copper, thick, heavy, full of sorrow.”

Dorian jumped, head whipping around to find Cole standing awkwardly beside him. “Maker, Cole! You’re going to give someone a heart attack!"

Cole didn’t respond, instead going on, “You make him feel like more than what he is, but he still is what he is, and the marks make him remember why he can still taste the blood. But the fear he felt when he thought he saw your face in the darkness was as real as anything he’s ever felt.”

Dorian’s brows furrowed as he looked at the boy, realization dawning on him. He knew who Cole was talking about, but he didn’t know what he was talking about. “Uh, Cole, perhaps you shouldn’t be sharing this?”

“Show him,” Cole replied, more urgently. “Show him that he doesn’t have to choose. Show him that being happy isn’t a betrayal."

Then Dorian was alone, and he furrowed his brow, trying to hold onto the memory of Cole’s words, but it was like holding water in a flat palm. Seconds later, he couldn’t remember why he’d stopped reading, only that he was suddenly filled with the desire to make sure the Inquisitor was okay.

* * *

He ended up finding him, to his shock, in the little temple to Andraste in the room beside the garden, candles lit around the room and a large statue of Andraste in front of him. He was kneeling, head bowed, and Dorian came in as silently as he could before closing the door behind him. Still, he should have known better than to think he could sneak up on even a newly-trained assassin.

“I’m not Andrastian now,” Feyren informed him, not lifting his head, “if that’s what you’re thinking. I just like the quiet.”

“I had to wonder,” Dorian replied, leaning against the wall. “The word is that you saw Andraste in the Fade.”

“I saw a spirit in the Beyond, pretending to be Divine Justinia.” Finally, he pulled himself up off his knees and turned to Dorian. Thankfully, he looked better now that they were back at Skyhold. The whole road back to the fortress, Dorian had been shooting him concerned glances, if not outright clinging to his side; he’d been pale, almost sickly looking. The fear hadn’t quite left his eyes, but it really only showed when he thought no one was looking. Now, though, there seemed to be some sort of new resolve in him, concrete. Maybe it was his talks with Solas; when Dorian wasn’t steadfast at his side, it was Solas, muttering things to him in that low, soothing voice. Dorian appreciated it as much as he was jealous of the reaction Solas received; whatever he was saying seemed to have a much more calming effect than the words Dorian had offered.

Breaking him from his thoughts, Feyren continued. His voice sounded defensive, reminiscent of when they’d first known each other. “I will never be Andrastian. Not when countless elves were slaughtered by the Chantry. Not when elven gods are treated like childish whims, but when elves try to embrace the Maker, they are told that that same Maker believes them to be lesser. They disrespect Shartan, they removed him from their Chant and _cropped his ears_ in his portrait. I can’t abide by the Chantry. Not now, or ever.”

Dorian was startled by this sudden fire; he couldn’t really recall provoking it. “Feyren… I hope I never indicated that I felt you had to believe otherwise.”

Quickly, Feyren sighed and shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, it’s not… I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Whenever something like this comes up, every time there’s even _more_ emphasis put on the fact that I’m meant to be the Herald of Andraste, I get frustrated. To say the least, really,” he said, sighing again as he sat down on one of the steps that led up to the statue of Andraste. Frowning, Dorian went to sit beside him. “Being here, being the… the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, working with something that just _reeks_ of the Chantry, even if they denounce us… I can’t help but feel like I’m betraying my people. I know some clans that’d run me through for working with a former Templar and the former right and left hand of the Divine, let alone being… friends with a Tevinter mage.”

Dorian frowned, drumming his fingers on his knee. It was hard to know what to say in this situation; it wasn’t something he could really empathize fully with. Yes, he’d left his homeland and was doing everything they’d find deplorable, but the culture (and many of the people) was a corrupted cesspool. It was different with the Dalish, who worked so hard to retain a culture that was constantly being ripped away. A few weeks ago, he may have offered some advice straight away, but now, he hesitated.

Eventually, though, he did speak up, if only to try to take that pained expression off of Feyren’s face, “Do you remember when you told me you thought I was brave for abandoning tradition?” Feyren glanced over at him and nodded. “Though I joked at the time, I think you’re brave for the opposite reason. For you, it’s not easy to hold _on_ to tradition, not when everyone is trying to drag you, kicking and screaming, into having the opinions and beliefs of the masses. But, to their dismay, you are remarkably stubborn.” Feyren snorted at that, and it made Dorian smile. “Honestly, Feyren, I can’t fully understand the situation, not really, but I… I think that if I were a member of your clan, I’d be proud of you for not only being a wonderful representative of your people, but also unapologetically holding on to your culture. It’s quite a remarkable thing.”

Feyren smiled, the first time Dorian had seen him do so since he’d stepped out of the Fade, and he felt a sense of accomplishment deep down in his bones. “Thank you, Dorian,” he replied, then hesitated. “There’s… something that I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Kind of related to this.”

Dorian’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? Go on.”

Feyren opened his mouth to do just that when Josephine burst through the door. “Inquisitor! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, did you forget you need to be fitted for your formalwear? You can’t show up to the Winter Palace in your armor!”

Sighing, Feyren shot Dorian an apologetic glance before standing. “Duty calls. Always at the most inopportune times.” He reached out a hand to Dorian to help the man up, and Dorian couldn’t help but note that he sure was touchy these days. But perhaps it was wishful thinking.

“We can just table the discussion. Off you go to become even more strapping, Lord Inquisitor.”

Feyren rolled his eyes but smiled, too. Dorian felt quite lucky, even as he watched him walk off with Josephine, leaving him alone underneath the towering gaze of Andraste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, without a doubt, the slowest slow burn I've ever done. Hang in there, folks.


	8. Chapter 8

Unfortunately, that conversation would be put on quite a bit of a hold. They were seeing each other every day - by virtue of their continued dinners, which  _ were _ daily aside from the week Feyren went off to fix Crestwood’s undead problem without him - but Dorian got the feeling that this discussion was best to be had in private. And they hadn’t had any private time, considering, when Feyren wasn’t galavanting around Thedas, he was being given lessons in the Orlesian Game by Josephine and Leliana to prepare for the ball at Halamshiral. 

Feyren was not enjoying it. At all.

He would come to their usual dinner spot, plopping down and letting his forehead rest against the table, before moaning and groaning about Orlais. Today, he seemed in particularly low spirits. Dorian beamed at him. “Having fun?”

“Orlesians can fuck off,” he grumbled, lifting his head only to take a big bite of bread. He only waited until it was mostly chewed before he began speaking again (which Dorian did not find endearing). “I’m not built for this, Dorian. This… calculating, conniving, ridiculous  _ Game _ . I lack grace, charm, and any semblance of interest in this bullshit.”

Dorian laughed. “Oh, come now. You’re very charming. And you’re interested in strengthening the Inquisition. This is an… unfortunate method, but a method just the same.”

Feyren let out a noise of begrudging acknowledgment, swallowing his bread before taking a gulp of water. “You know you’re going, right?”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow and let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, I’m not.”

“Uh,  _ yes _ , you are,” Feyren replied, adamant as ever. “If you think I’m doing this without you, you’re  _ sorely _ mistaken. If I’m suffering, so are you.”

“The camaraderie is really touching, Fey,” he said flatly, ready to keep up the banter, but a look on Feyren’s face gave him pause. “What?”

Quickly, Feyren looked at the table, flushing a little. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s just that… well, people in my clan sometimes call me that. Haven’t heard it since before the conclave.”

“Oh.” Dorian shifted uncomfortably. “Would you like me to… not?”

“No, no! It’s fine. Really. It’s nice to hear.” He smiled, giving a little wave of his hand. There was a bit of a glint in his eye that Dorian wasn’t sure he trusted. “Anyway, I’m sorry, you were just about to tell me how you’d be delighted to go to the Winter Palace with me?”

Dorian rolled his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But I’m drinking the whole time.”

Feyren smirked. “Wouldn’t expect anything different.”

* * *

The day had finally arrived; they were in Halamshiral, approaching the Winter Palace with a group of soldiers, the advisors, and the most hodge-podge party that the royal courts of Orlais had likely ever seen. 

Dorian wasn’t sure if Feyren had done it just to spite the racism and prejudices of Orlais, but he seemed to have purposefully brought along everyone who would offend the most Orlesian nobles: Dorian, of course, along with Iron Bull and Varric. It was bound to be an interesting trip.

As they rode in, there were various Orlesian nobles standing around under the guise of chatting, but it was clear they just wanted to be the first to see the face of the Inquisitor. And as soon as they did, their conversations became even more heated. 

“I suppose we’re officially in Orlais,” Dorian called to Feyren from his horse. The twisted face that Feyren made in response was nothing short of hilarious, and Dorian let out a chuckle. “Not too pleased?”

Feyren gave a sidelong glance toward a woman whose dress looked suspiciously like a pastry as she covered her mouth with her hand in shock. “I think I’m breaking out in hives.” He glanced back at Dorian. “I swear, if this mission goes south - which it will, because it always does - I’m not dying in Orlais. Tie me to a horse and drag my bleeding body back to Ferelden if you have to.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, grinning. “And they say  _ I’m  _ melodramatic.”

“You are,” Feyren replied flatly, glancing at a man who was staring at him with disdain. His expression was steel, but at this point, Dorian knew him well enough to know this was going to be a strain. The complicated, grandstanding, calculated politics of Orlais exhausted him, and no doubt the blatant prejudices he would face would exhaust him further. As he watched the Orlesians go back to their gossiping, Dorian became determined to do everything he could to be a steady support. 

* * *

That turned out to be harder than he thought. Feyren was swept up almost immediately by Josephine and Leliana, who were giving him last minute lessons as well as getting him ready for presentation at the ball that evening. As guests of Duke Gaspard, they were given every hospitality, but only the Inquisitor received the luxury private dressing quarters, while Dorian had to share with Bull, Varric, and Cullen (the ladies would get ready with Feyren to continue their lessons until the very last second).

Dorian worried as he put on his uniform, a sleek black, and he worried as he pulled his gold sash over his chest, tying it and smoothing it down. He  _ still  _ worried as he made sure his hair was in place and his staff was in an easily-accessible place. 

“Sparkler, you’re going to give yourself wrinkles, and we all know that’d delight Vivienne far too much,” Varric said as he approached Dorian. “Stop worrying. Boss will be fine.”

“I know he’ll be  _ fine _ ,” Dorian sniffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have every faith in him. However, I do not have faith in these… these conniving, bigoted sycophants! Maker knows they won’t treat him with the respect he deserves.”

“No, they won’t. But he can handle stuffy nobles. Besides, Josephine and Leliana have been drilling those lessons into his skull. He knows how to play the Game, even if he won’t enjoy it.”

“Just because he can handle it doesn’t mean he should have to.”

Varric chuckled and patted Dorian’s back. “Yeah, well, that’s true about a lot of things, Sparkler. But thank the Maker, for all our sakes, that your dashing young elf is more selfless than he is allergic to politics.”

Dorian’s retort got lost somewhere at the implication of the word ‘your’, and he was still trying to get his thoughts together when Josephine burst into the room. She looked lovely, if a bit frazzled. “Is everyone ready? Come, come, we must be announced!”

So the three of them (Cullen had, in usual Cullen fashion, already went ahead to survey the area) followed Josephine out to the vestibule, where the Inquisitor was talking to Duke Gaspard. Dorian was instantly struck by how wonderful he looked, but also how… not like himself. He was wearing virtually the same thing that all of the Inquisition members were - the black uniform with gold embellishments - but whereas they had the Inquisition symbol represented by a pin on their sash, his was represented by a beautifully embroidered black and gold cloak. Further setting him apart, he wore the Andrastian Inquisition crown atop an ornately braided updo that Dorian was sure Feyren didn’t like. 

Though Feyren had expressed an appreciation for finer things, the point of opulence had always escaped him; he was clearly not comfortable in an environment like this, where the coin spent on everyone’s jewelry would be enough to feed an entire alienage for a year. However, it was only clear to Dorian because he  _ knew  _ Feyren. To anyone else, he would have seemed very calm and collected indeed. 

His gaze shifted up to them as they approached, and Dorian wondered if he was imagining the relief in the other man’s gaze when his eyes landed on him. Gaspard gave a showy little bow before heading through the doors to begin their announcements. Before the Inquisitor could make his way out, Dorian dashed over. 

“How’re the hives?” he muttered, low enough so only Feyren could hear. The man smiled, but Dorian could see how tired he already was.

“Insufferable,” he replied, gesturing vaguely to his showy crown. “Always a rip-roaring evening when I get called a savage, a rabbit, and a knife-ear before I even enter the gates. Maintaining my courteousness, though. Josephine would be proud.”

Dorian pursed his lips and resisted the urge to tut disapprovingly. “They don’t deserve your courteousness.”

Feyren smiled again at that response, but it was tight-lipped, sad. “No, they do not. But I have to work five times as hard as anyone here in order to gain a fraction of respect I would naturally have were I human. Such is the way of the world.” Feyren reached out to adjust Dorian’s Inquisition pin, his smile a little more genuine now. “Besides, I like when they underestimate me. It gives me the opportunity to embarrass them.”

Dorian chuckled at that, though he was still stuck on the point that Feyren had tried to distract from. He had always felt the same way about being from Tevinter, as well as being a mage in the South, but it suddenly occurred to him that he could hide both of those things if he wanted. People would see him as a person first. Feyren was not so lucky. The moment these Orlesians laid eyes on him, they thought of him as lesser. And Feyren, of course, was correct - he’d have to work significantly harder to be afforded the same respect as Dorian had just for being human. He’d known Feyren would face prejudice at the palace, that he wouldn’t be given the respect he deserved, but he hadn’t thought about it in those terms. He had been so focused on his own oppression - as a man who preferred men in Tevinter, as a Tevinter mage in the South - that he hadn’t recognized his own privileges. 

But he had spent too long thinking, and Feyren was being whisked away to be announced. He shot one last look at Dorian, who, still caught up in his own head, followed.

* * *

Things could have been going better, but they also could have been going worse. True to his word, Dorian was drinking alone in the garden, surrounded by nobility who, almost exclusively, were talking about the Inquisitor.

Frankly, it was a bit funny; though he hadn’t seen the man since they last spoke in the vestibule, he was able to keep up with how things were going. The whispers started off overwhelmingly negative (it hadn’t helped when, much to Dorian’s delight, Feyren had demanded he also be announced as ‘warleader to Clan Lavellan’, insisting it was just as valid as any noble title), though there was certainly some curiosity tainting the comments. As the night went on and Feyren proved himself more and more adept at the Game, the comments were more curious than negative. He hadn’t quite proven himself yet, but opinions were improving.

After a while, however, he saw the Inquisitor enter the garden, stopping to talk to Celene’s ladies in waiting. Dorian wasn’t quite confident that the man would come to talk to him - he had an Empress to save, after all - but was, for once, delighted to find that he was wrong.

Feyren approached, some of the good manners and charm he’d worn for Celene’s ladies wearing off. Still, his expression was more genuine, and Dorian tried to give an encouraging smile. A joke, then. To cheer him up. 

“This is all so familiar. I half expect my mother to materialize from the crowd and criticize my manners.”

Feyren rewarded his efforts with a smile. “Is it so similar in Tevinter?”

“Well, there’s been no murder, so the party likely would have been canceled by now and deemed a dull affair.” He chuckled, another reward, but it sounded more tired than humored. Dorian’s face softened. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be better when this is over,” he replied with a sigh. Then the smile returned. “You think you can come find me when this is all over?”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow but grinned indulgently. “I think I can manage that.”

* * *

Turns out it took quite a bit of time for ‘this’ to be over. First, they had to fight around the servants quarters, then they had to fall into Florianne’s trap, and  _ then  _ the Inquisitor had to expose said trap. If one good thing could be said, it was that, by the end of the night, Feyren had proven himself to be an incredible (if unwilling) player of the Game. He’d won over the court and, from what he’d heard Leliana whispering about, had received many offers of a warm bed from men and women alike. Dorian tried not to let it bother him and instead, as promised, set off to find Feyren.

It didn’t actually take that long to find his friend. Many people were looking for him among the guests, but Dorian knew better; after everything he’d gone through, Feyren would want a break from the back-patting nobility (who, earlier that night, had been referring to him solely using slurs). 

The balcony was the third place he’d checked, and he was mildly perturbed to see Celene’s arcane advisor strolling out with a Cheshire-cat smile. But that was a problem for a different evening. He made his way out, leaning on the railing beside Feyren. The man’s brow was furrowed as he stared out into the distance.

“Lost in thought?”

Feyren almost started at the sound of his voice, glancing over in surprise. However, his expression quickly turned pleased, and Dorian warmed down to his toes. “Trying not to be. I’m tired of having to think about everything, especially what I say and do.”

“I can imagine you would be,” Dorian replied with a little frown. “Would you rather I leave you to yourself, then?”

“No.” Feyren was quick to shake his head. “Part of the reason I asked to see you was specifically because I don’t have to do that with you.”

Dorian felt incredibly pleased with that, practically preening at the tiny bit of praise. “I’m pleased to hear it. In that case, how best can I distract you?”

For a long few moments, Feyren seemed as though he hadn’t heard, but before Dorian could repeat himself, Feyren turned and gave a dramatic bow before offering his hand. “Dance with me?”

It was not what Dorian had been expecting, that was for certain. Probably the last thing he would have expected, actually. But he felt so… schoolboy-ish in that moment, like an adolescent with a crush. It was all he could do not to giggle. 

“Certainly,” he replied, a little more breathless than he’d like, as he took Feyren’s hand. The man pulled him close and began to waltz with perfect rhythm, like some sort of prince from a fairy tale, and, for the thousandth time, Dorian recognized this was dangerous. He was feeling too much, too fast. Feyren had him wrapped around his finger, and Dorian was quite worried he knew it.

“Now who’s lost in thought?” Feyren smiled at him as they changed direction. 

Dorian returned it, though it was a bit more tentative. “I apologize.”

“Don’t,” Feyren replied, soft this time. There was something a little urgent in his gaze that Dorian didn’t quite understand. Even so, he paused before continuing. Always so careful. “There are things I need to say. That we need to talk about. But today was so long and near-insufferable, and I can’t do a single thought justice right now. So please, just… just dance with me.”

So he did. 


	9. Chapter 9

It was becoming clearer and clearer to Dorian that Feyren needed a break. Between Adamant and the Winter Palace, Dorian wouldn’t have been surprised if the man spontaneously collapsed. And yes, Corypheus was still out there, threatening the world, and he likely didn’t take breaks, but that didn’t mean Feyren (and, by extension, the Inquisition) couldn’t benefit from one.

Dorian was willing to admit his intentions weren’t entirely altruistic. He hoped, of course, to spend time with Feyren during this break, and finally get to the bottom of what the other man had been dancing around (in the case of their moment at the Winter Palace just days ago, literally). Even if Dorian refused to assume anything about what the other man was feeling, that didn’t mean he couldn’t hope. A little.

However, when he brought this matter up to Josephine, he was startled by her response. “Oh, the Inquisitor already requested that tonight be free of any Inquisition business, and myself, Cullen, and Leliana agreed it was a good idea.”

“What?” It was shocking to him that Feyren would take the initiative to ask for any amount of time to himself, considering how he was always putting the Inquisition efforts before anything else. “Did he say what he was doing?”

“He said it was a religious holiday for his people, and that it might be best to keep the nobles away from the tavern, but that was all,” she said, already glancing down at her work. It was difficult for her to keep focus on anything else for long. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

Dorian made a noise of agreement. “Yes. As am I.”

* * *

After leaving Josephine’s office, Dorian immediately made his way to the Inquisitor’s chambers. His knock on the door was met with a hesitant ‘come in’, and moments later, he was face to face with Feyren.

The man looked happy. That wasn’t to say he looked sad every other time, or even merely  _ un _ happy. It was moreso that now he looked noticeably brighter, warmer, the smile on his face more natural than Dorian had seen it for longer than a moment. Moreover, he’d done his hair in a special way, clearly formal but in a style that suited him more than that hyper-ornate one at the Winter Palace. This time, it was a loose braid with flowers and vines weaved into it. His clothes were plain aside from the light green jacket he wore, clearly handcrafted with the utmost care. Into the front was sewn, in silver thread, a tree.

“Oh, hello, Dorian! I was worried you were one of my advisors.”

“Funny that you mention them. I just talked to Josephine, and she told me that you took the night off,” Dorian said, grinning in spite of himself. He was just happy to see Feyren look so happy, even if his plan to spend quality time with him had fallen through. 

“I did. It’s Vunin’Harel. The day of tricks, and my favorite day of the year.” He lifted up his hand to show off a mask sculpted and painted to resemble a wolf. It reminded Dorian of Orlesian masks, but a much less grandiose version. And, unlike when he was surrounded by Orlesian festivities, Feyren looked absolutely delighted with himself. “I get to be Fen’Harel.”

Dorian was intrigued, as he tended to be whenever he got a glimpse into Dalish and elven culture. “Isn’t Fen’Harel the villain of the elven gods? Why would you be celebrating him?”

Feyren shook his head, turning back to his mirror to adjust the vines in his hair. “Vunin’Harel is not about celebrating the Dread Wolf. It’s sort of about beating him at his own game. We wear masks - including the master of the evening, who wears a wolf mask to represent the Dread Wolf - to trick him into passing over us for the year. He sees debauchery, festivity, and his own visage being celebrated, so, believing that he has caused a sufficient amount of chaos, he turns away, leaving us to a year of calm.” Feyren turned back to Dorian and held the mask over his face. Dorian could see his ears twitch in the way that always indicated he was in good spirits. Lowering it, his expression reflected the same. “That’s the story, anyway. Really, it’s just an excuse for the Dalish to drink, dance, and be the wild folk everyone claims we are anyway. We can get so uptight sometimes, feeling like the upkeep of the elven culture is on our shoulders, and this is a chance for us to forget and just have fun for the night.”

“I see,” Dorian replied thoughtfully. It certainly sounded like something he would enjoy, though he’d never ask to participate. He knew this wasn’t for him.  “Do the city elves do it too?”

Feyren shrugged. “Some do. Many can’t celebrate fully, though, because the alienages are so scrutinized. They’ll maybe have a party, wear their masks in their homes, but they can’t do it like the Dalish do when we’re away from humans. Which is  _ why _ I’m holding a celebration for all the elves at Skyhold tonight, city and Dalish and whomever else. It’ll be in a grove just outside the fortress.” He rocked on his heels, suddenly bashful. “I told everyone the first two hours were just for elves, for us to celebrate our holiday among our people, but then we’re coming back to the Herald’s Rest to bring the party to everyone else. You’re more than welcome to join, if you’d like.”

Dorian tried not to look as happy as he felt, but he knew he was failing miserably. “I think I could make an appearance.”

Feyren shone even more brightly at that, positively beaming, and Dorian felt spoiled. “Good,” he replied, slipping the mask over his face and tying it behind his head. All Dorian could see of his face were his violet eyes and his lips, which were curling into a mischievous smirk. “Can’t wait.”

* * *

By the time Dorian arrived at the Herald’s Rest, everything was in the most delightful state of chaos. All the tables had been moved to make way for the dancing, and all of the elves were still in their masks. The usual dwarven bartender had been replaced with an elven one who seemed to be rip-roaring drunk. Despite Feyren’s invitation, the room was mostly made up of elves, though all of the Chargers were there, including The Iron Bull, as well as Varric, and there were a few humans on the sidelines that seemed to be there just to nervously observe. He even spotted Sera, who, despite the ‘elfiness’ of the holiday, could not pass up a party like this.

After surveying the scene, he immediately looked for Feyren, but he didn’t have to look for long. All it took was a glance upward to see the man sitting on the handrail of the second floor, lute in hand, the source of the music the elves were dancing to. He was still wearing the wolf mask, but his hair was free of its braid, wild and careless, some flowers and vines still remaining in it. He looked lovely and wild, and, to Dorian’s surprise, his voice was sweet as honey as he sang his elven song, filling the room with a jovial spirit. His legs swung to the beat, feet hitting the wood as they came down, a metronome to the mayhem.

Grinning, Dorian first went to the bar to get a drink. It took quite a bit of effort to get past all the elves dancing on top of the bar, and then to try to convey what he wanted to the bartender, who then ignored his request and instead poured him a suspicious green drink out of a caramel colored bottle. She took a sip of it herself before handing it to Dorian. Her own mask was much simpler than Feyren’s, a worn black leather embossed with branches of a tree. It seemed, from glancing around, that simpler masks such as that, embossed with various designs, was the norm. Feyren’s, by virtue of being the master of the evening, was special.

Breaking him out of his observations, Bull went and clapped him on the back. “Dorian! Glad to see you here. The boss is in rare form tonight,” he said with a low chuckle, and Dorian followed his gaze to where Feyren was still playing up above the noise. “I’m surprised he can even balance up there, let alone play. Ten minutes ago he was dancing on the bar and drinking that nasty green shit straight out of the bottle.” Bull gestured to Dorian’s cup. “Careful. It’ll knock you on your ass, even faster than dwarven ale. These elves know how to party.”

Dorian gave a roll of his eyes - he could hold his liquor, like any good Tevinter - before bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip. Then immediately coughing and sputtering. 

“What is  _ in  _ this?” he asked when he finally got his bearings. He already felt slightly unsteady on his feet, but maybe it was in his head.

The Iron Bull laughed and then shrugged. “Dunno, but Boss says he’s been fermenting it since we got to Skyhold, and that it was  _ supposed  _ to be fermented for the entire year.”

“Maker. It’s a miracle he’s still conscious.” 

A few more quick words with Bull and Dorian was heading up to the second floor, where there were a surprising amount of couples pressed against one another in the corners that were most certainly not dark enough to conceal it. Leaning on the railing beside where Feyren was sitting, he listened as the man finished the song. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” he remarked, and Feyren whipped his head around so fast his mask was sent askew. Instantly, he broke into a grin as he adjusted it.

“Dorian! Finally. I was worried you’d never come.” His words were only a little bit slurred, and his eyes seemed focused enough behind the mask. Dorian was begrudgingly impressed, but he was distracted by the feeling of warmth he received from the thought of Feyren waiting for him.

“Told you I would, didn’t I?”

“You did indeed.”

Feyren just stared at him, smiling, and Dorian cleared his throat as his face flushed. “So. I didn’t know you could play.”

The man looked confused for a moment before Dorian gestured to his lute. “Oh, yes, of course!” He began playing another tune, and, out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw everyone beginning to dance once again. “Our hahren, Laren, taught me. Told me my hands were perfect for it. I always thought my hands were one of my best features.” Dorian looked at them and could, in fact, confirm that they were very nice. Now that he was noticing them, he couldn’t seem to stop.

He took a long sip of his drink and winced at the taste.

“So what was the song you were singing? Before this one?”

Feyren’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, it’s quite an old elven tune. So old that we’re allowed to sing it, even though it’s scandalous. It’s about Andruil and Fen’Harel. Andruil is the goddess of the hunt-” He gestured vaguely to his face, and Dorian recalled the way his vallaslin resembled a bow and arrow, “- and the story goes that Fen’Harel hunted a halla without her blessing, and she was so angry she tied him to a tree and said that he had to serve in her bed for a year and a day as recompense.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows, amused. “Serve in her bed? You mean…”

“Essentially become her sex slave, yes,” Feyren replied with a chuckle. “There’s other parts that come after, but that’s mostly what the song is about. Roughly translated, it’s called ‘The Pleasures of the Dread Wolf’.” His hands were still effortlessly moving over the strings as he spoke, and Dorian couldn’t stop glancing at them. “I thought all elves knew it, but when I mentioned it to Solas, he said he didn’t. When I played it for him, though, I’d never seen him laugh so hard.”

“I wouldn’t have pictured him to have a dirty sense of humor.”

“Eh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past him.” Feyren’s new song ended and he glanced down at the masses. “Hey, Ash!” Dorian saw an elven woman in a red leather mask look up. “Mind taking over for me?” When she nodded and began making her way up, Feyren climbed off the handrail and grinned at Dorian. “As much as I enjoyed our waltz, I think teaching you an elven dance would be even better. Care to join me?”

Dorian finished off the last of his drink (managing to not wince at the taste this time) and set the cup aside, taking Feyren’s hand. “Delighted.”

* * *

The dance wasn’t so complicated, nor was it so  _ very  _ different from courtly dances. But it _was_ much less reserved and much more fun. It was made even more fun by the fact that he’d never seen Feyren laugh so much. He’d mentioned that the night was a way for the Dalish to let go of their self-imposed responsibility for a little while, and Feyren seemed as though he was managing to do just that.

Even Dorian was forgetting himself in the music and the drinks and the good spirits of every single person in the room. Seeing the man he cared about, his dearest friend, so happy made it all the easier. It was strange, but he felt like this could be another world, like he could exist in a place where a Tevinter mage and a Dalish elf, two men, dancing together would, such as now, always pass off without incident. He felt as though they were in an alternate version of the reality they lived, and there was no threat looming. Just this. 

He supposed he understood why Feyren liked the holiday so much.

A few dances in and Feyren extracted himself from Dorian to climb up on the bar. He proceeded to howl, loud and clear, and all the masked elves in the room responded in kind as the music died and everyone went quiet. 

“My friends, family, and comrades! Let me make the final toast of the evening.” He swirled his cup as though in anticipation, and the theatrics made Dorian smile. “Tonight has been one of the finest days of my life. Not only did I hear of the safety of my clan just this morning -” The crowd cheered (including Dorian, who was relieved to hear this after so long without news), and he grinned, waiting for it to die down before going on, “- but I was also able to spend the evening with some of the finest elves I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Tonight, when Fen’Harel looks upon you, may he find you with a beautiful lover, a strong drink, and the desire to do nothing but cause the chaos he craves.” A raucous cheer from the elves followed Feyren’s toast, and he laughed, full and bright, as he raised his cup. “To the Dread Wolf!”

A random shout from the crowd responded, “To Feyren Lavellan!”

The crowd echoed the sentiment, and Feyren’s expression may have been hidden by his mask, but Dorian could see the blush peeking out underneath it. Dorian, for his part, was filled with insurmountable pride and joy for his friend. For one night, he was able to  _ be  _ Feyren Lavellan. Not the Inquisitor, not the Herald, but Feyren Lavellan. 

Dorian was more than happy to drink to that.

* * *

The didn’t leave the Herald’s Rest until hours later, and by then, they were both quite drunk. Dorian insisted on walking Feyren to his room, which was why they were both currently stumbling up the stairs to his quarters, laughing as they tried to catch their balance.

“I can’t believe you let Bull run around the tavern with you on his shoulder,” Dorian said between fits of laughter. “The sight of you hanging on to his horns for dear life and ducking away from banisters is one I will not likely forget.”

“Hey, I wasn’t fully aware of how tall he was until I was up there and he was already running!” Feyren replied, just as giggly. His mask was in his hand then, as it had kept falling off on the walk back and neither of them had enough coordination to tie it. “Damn, I wish I could be as big as a Qunari.”

“Your body is quite strapping just the way it is, I assure you.” Their laughter subsided slightly, and Dorian realized that they were standing in the Inquisitor’s chambers. It had been, woefully, a shorter trip than he’d wanted.

Feyren set the mask down on his desk and turned to Dorian, smiling a little more softly, more intimately. Dorian practically trembled with everything it made him feel. “Thank you. For coming tonight. I was happy to spend time with you.”

“And I with you,” Dorian responded, smiling slightly. “I’m just glad you had a good night. You seemed so…  _ joyful _ . And you deserve that.”

Feyren’s smile faded just an inch, and Dorian found that he missed that inch terribly. “So do you,” he replied, voice quiet. They went silent for a moment and Dorian, not knowing what else to do, made his way over to the stairs. 

“Goodnight, Feyren.”

There was a pause, and then, “Goodnight, Dorian.”

Swallowing down his disappointment, he made his way down the first set of stairs that led out of the Inquisitor’s chambers and slipped out the door, ready to try to sleep and deal with the intense hangover he was bound to have in the morning. But just as he was about to push open the door to the main hall, he heard the Inquisitor’s door open and quick footsteps moving toward him. He barely had time to turn before he was being pressed into the stone wall, and Feyren’s mouth was on his. 

The surprise stalled him, but only for a second. An instant later, his hand was in Feyren’s hair and he was pulling the man even closer to him. They were pressed so close he could faintly feel Feyren’s heartbeat, pounding rapidly against his chest. Feyren’s hands were on his hips, pulling him impossibly closer, and it was so perfect he almost couldn’t believe it was real.

But, much to their mutual disdain, oxygen was required, so they pulled back from each other to take a gasping breath. Feyren didn’t stray too far, though, instead kissing along Dorian’s jaw and down his neck.

“I adore you,” he muttered, voice so full of affection that Dorian could hardly stand it. “Creators, I adore you, I never thought I could want someone this much.”

Dorian, stunned by this confession, ducked his head down to capture Feyren’s lips in another kiss. He could barely think before, with his alcohol addled brain, but now it was even more difficult. Feyren’s hands were everywhere: on his hips, sliding up his chest, gripping his arms. All Dorian could think was how he wanted them on his bare skin.

But then Feyren was pulling back a bit, then further when Dorian tried to chase his lips. Still, he didn’t move far; instead, he brushed his nose against Dorian’s, an affectionate gesture that, once again, overwhelmed him.

“Dorian, we have to stop here tonight. If we… I can’t spend a second longer kissing you if it doesn’t end in me dragging you to my bed.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Dorian asked, but he was, secretly, a bit glad Feyren had stopped them. He could barely see straight, and he didn’t want to spend a night with Feyren that he wouldn’t fully remember. Still, part of him was terrified that this was a product of Feyren’s drunkenness, and that, the next day, the man would change his mind. 

Feyren chuckled and reached up to touch Dorian’s face, more tenderly than Dorian felt he deserved. “No. But there are things that need to be said before that can happen.” Dorian was soothed by the prospect of another chance. “Come here tomorrow morning. I’ll have breakfast for us, we can talk. It’s long overdue.”

Dorian nodded. “Okay,” he replied, a little more breathlessly than he would have preferred. Feyren smiled.

“Okay.” He kissed him again, slow and languid, before pulling back and stepping fully away. There was a pained look in his eyes, like it was the last thing he wanted to be doing, and Dorian felt far too pleased about it. It eased the sting of his own disappointment at having to leave.  

“Goodnight, Dorian.”

“Goodnight, Feyren.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd there it is. Took a few liberties with Dalish culture/elven language, but I'm really pleased with this chapter. Also, the absolutely lovely art for this chapter was done by sunshinemage on tumblr! Give them some love (and commissions)!


	10. Chapter 10

Dorian’s hangover was one for the ages. When he woke, feeling as though he had died and only just moments earlier been brought back, he was half convinced that green liquor was simply poison with similar effects of alcohol. He was ready to turn over and attempt to fall back asleep when he remembered the night before and his eyes snapped open.

Feyren.

He was unconvinced that it hadn’t been a dream. There was a hazy cloud over everything from the previous night that made him feel immensely skeptical. But on the off chance that it wasn’t, and Feyren was really waiting for him with breakfast (which he wasn’t even sure he could stomach), he had to be there. So, with all the energy he had left, he pulled himself out of bed and attempted to make himself presentable.

It turned out to take longer than he thought it might, both because any movements that were too fast sent the room spinning and because he looked… not his best. A bit like death warmed up, which meant he looked better than he felt. 

But eventually, he gave up on trying to look perfect and made his way down to Feyren’s quarters. He knocked, to no answer, but there was a loud clang inside and a curse, so he tentatively made his way inside.

The loud clang turned out to be Feyren moving a tray on what looked to be a quite delightful feast. He’d cleared off his desk to make room for pastries, bacon, juice, and eggs.

Dorian almost gagged at the sight of it.

Perhaps elf bodies were more accustomed to such libations, because Feyren didn’t look even a fraction as bad as Dorian felt. His skin was clear, his hair was in his usual half braided, half loose hairdo, and there was no illness in his countenance. But when he saw Dorian, that lovely face was twinged with quite a bit of panic. 

“Dorian! Oh, I’m glad you’re here.” He straightened and Dorian was pleased to see a grin begin to form. “You look awful.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow. Even just that motion made the room a little less steady. “Something every man loves to hear.”

Feyren chuckled and grabbed a cup, passing it to Dorian. He looked down at it with trepidation; it was filled with a suspicious looking green fluid, not wholly unlike what Dorian had drunk to make him feel this way in the first place. 

“Hair of the dog?” Dorian asked, making a face as he glanced up at Feyren. He couldn’t imagine drinking more of that awful stuff.

Thankfully, Feyren shook his head. “No, no. It’s for the hangover, just a few herbs. Why do you think I’m not knocked on my ass right now?”

Dorian looked between the drink and Feyren with some suspicion, but his trust in the other man (as well as the very valid point that Feyren looked perfectly well, especially compared to Dorian) compelled him to bring the cup to his lips and toss it back.

It was horrible. Even worse than the liquor. Dorian immediately retched, but Feyren was quick to hand him a cup of juice that he swallowed down instantly. 

“Kaffas, that is awful,” Dorian spat when he’d chased the taste enough with juice, shuddering. However, to his surprise, he already felt better. The room was spinning a bit less and he no longer felt seconds away from vomiting. “What is in that?”

“Dalish secret. Strong liquor calls for stronger hangover cures,” he replied with a chuckle, taking both cups from Dorian and setting them aside. Any confidence he had diminished somewhat, though, as he had nothing to distract from the reason he’d invited Dorian (whatever it may have been). He rocked a bit on his heels, staring hard at a tray of lovely little pastries that he’d set out. 

After a beat of awkward silence, Dorian grew antsy, so he broke it. “So, I must ask. Is this lovely breakfast meant to soften the blow of rejection?” He surprised himself at his forthrightness; he must have been more nervous than he thought. But still, the question was valid. They had both been drunk the night before, and silly things tended to happen when men were drunk. Things they could regret. He knew that better than anyone.

However, Dorian was immediately mollified by the way that Feyren shook his head so hard it looked as though it would fling off his shoulders. “What? No. I…” He adjusted a plate that was slightly off-center with the rest of them. When he finished his sentence, his voice was soft. “It was meant to impress you, I suppose. To make you happy.”

Dorian was startled by how vulnerable the other man looked. He’d seen that look on Feyren a few times before, of course, but he had never been the cause of it. “Well,” he said, moving forward to brush his fingers over Feyren’s wrist, his smile as kind and encouraging as he could make it, “consider me happy.”

Feyren glanced up at him and smiled, a bit more assured, and Dorian was relieved to see it. Honestly, it was unusual to see Feyren as anything but assured, and Dorian hated to think that he had done anything to cause it. “Right. Good.”

“So. Shall we eat?”

Before Feyren could even nod, the door to his quarters was flung open, and a Dalish elf came flying through, guards hot on her tail. 

“Your Worship, this woman, she says she knows you. We weren’t going to let her through but she’s…” The guard sucked in a deep breath before continuing, and still, his breathing was quite ragged. “Very fast.”

The other guard tried to grab her, but she escaped his grasp, baring her teeth. “Hands off, shem.” She turned to Feyren and grinned, leaning into a mocking bow. “Your Worship.”

“Lila,” Feyren breathed, breaking out into a grin that matched hers before launching himself over to her, pulling her into a hug that she quickly returned.  

Dorian, startled, took this pause to study her. She was beautiful, in a wild sort of way. There were a number of imperfections - her nose was crooked in the middle, as though it had been broken, and her top lip was a bit thin compared to her bottom - but there was something undeniably attractive about her. She had wildly curly black hair and skin a few shades darker than Dorian’s. Her vallaslin was striking, the same as design as Feyren’s but done in bright red ink.

Dorian was instantly annoyed and mildly jealous, but he reserved judgment until he knew the full situation.

“Creators, Lila, what the hell are you doing here?” Feyren asked, though he didn’t sound anything but absolutely delighted. “Shouldn’t you be with the clan?”

“Someone had to come by and make sure you were still alive. And still Dalish,” she told him, pulling out of the hug with a smirk. One of her fingers went up to tap his nose. “Glad to see the shems didn’t run you through with the nearest rusty knife. The rumors we’ve heard…” 

Feyren sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. “I’m working with them to close the rifts and stop Corypheus, but I have made a few friends here.” 

Lila’s attention turned to Dorian then, quirking her eyebrows as she looked him up and down. It made Dorian feel seen in a way that he wasn’t fully comfortable with. “So I see.”

Feyren’s eyes flickered to Dorian and he flushed. “Right. Um, Lila, this is Dorian Pavus. Dorian, this is Lila Lavellan. She’s a hunter in my clan, and my closest friend.”

Dorian put on his most winning smile, beginning to reach out his hand. “A pleasure to -”

“So you’re the Vint,” she cut him off, looking him up and down again. Now it was less appraising, and more like she was finding the spot on him that would bleed the most if stabbed. “Interesting friends you’ve made, Fey.”

Dorian dropped his hand and stood up a little straighter, feeling remnants of the defensiveness he did when he and Feyren first met. But he knew better now than to act on it right away. He was about to come to a cool defense when Feyren said, “He’s not like other Vints, Lila. He’s here to help, and he’s been a good friend to me.”

Lila ignored him, instead staring straight into Dorian’s eyes. He met her gaze with an even expression. “How much do you think you could get for a pretty elf like Feyren in your country, huh, Vint? Especially the Andrastian Inquisitor. Hundred gold, easy?”

Dorian bristled at the implication that he would ever let anything happen to Feyren. It must have shown in his expression, because Lila’s lips quirked up just slightly. “Considering how many enemies I’ve made in Tevinter, I’m sure he could sell me for just as much,” he replied, gaze flickering over to a nervous-looking Feyren. He shot him a small smirk. An attempt to be reassuring. “Somehow, I manage to trust him not to do so.”

Lila let out a noise that he wasn’t sure how to classify, staring hard at him. There was a beat of silence, and then she said, “I just want you to know, I have a lot of knives. Very sharp knives. Great for killing Vints.”

“Lila, please,” Feyren groaned, sounding exasperated but not particularly surprised. They both ignored him.

“Have you met the Iron Bull? He’d love you,” Dorian replied, and Lila smirked at him.

“No, but I’ve heard great things.” Lila finally turned her attention away from Dorian and back to Feyren. “I also came to give you thanks for saving our asses. Nice to know our warleader can still protect us from so far away.”

Feyren looked relieved that his friend had changed the subject. “Of course. You all are always going to be my priority.”

She let out a noise of acknowledgment, though her gaze shifted to Dorian, then to the elaborate breakfast set up on the desk. “Dunno, seems like you’ve got a pretty cushy set-up here. Wanna show me around?” She reached out and plucked a pastry off the tray. Dorian tried not to be annoyed, especially considering Feyren had looked at him with a bit of trepidation. 

“You know where to find me,” Dorian replied, smiling a tight smile. It wasn’t like he wanted to be apart from him, but he deserved to be able to spend time with his friend. They had time.

Feyren smiled in return, his own grateful, and it made Dorian feel a bit better about the whole thing. Besides, he was eager to escape from Lila’s probing gaze. Grabbing a pastry and a few pieces of bacon, he silently left the Inquisitor to talk to his fellow rogue. 

* * *

A few hours later, Dorian was sitting in his usual spot in the library, alternating between reading and glancing out the window. He’d been lucky enough to spot Feyren a few times, excitedly leading Lila about to show her the grounds. The only time Dorian had seen him so relaxed was the night before, when he was surrounded by elves. It made Dorian wonder how long, exactly, he’d be able to keep Feyren’s company. He had never expected to have it forever, certainly not once this was all over. It just didn’t happen that way, and he’d grown to accept that, even if the thought of their little… whatever it was ending plunged him into a freezing pool of despair.

Perhaps he was being dramatic, but still. Dorian was quite sure that there was no one else like Feyren, and, even if there was, he was sure he wouldn’t get so lucky twice. 

“Y’know, I feel like I should be threatening you,” a voice beside him said, and he turned to see Lila with her arms crossed over her chest, “but, honestly, I just feel kinda bad for you.”

Dorian sniffed, annoyed. “Why, pray tell, am I worthy of your pity?”

Lila smirked at him and moved over to lean against the bookcase. “You wouldn’t be the first to find yourself in this situation, you know. He’s handsome, sweet, smart. Hell, even his temper and stubbornness are weirdly enticing. Men and women of all races fall for him like wheat to a sickle.”

Dorian’s carefully cultivated expression fell away for a moment into one of surprise and a bit of nervousness, but he pulled it back together. Not quickly enough for Lila not to notice, though; she chuckled, and her grin got wider. “Oh, come on. People in this place may all look at him like he’s Andraste herself, but you… it’s different. It’s more.” 

She looked at him with that same probing gaze as she had earlier. “He told me about you in his letters, and, it’s funny, the first couple were all about how much he  _ hated  _ you. Absolutely detested you, he told me. But they got softer and softer, and I knew something was going on. The whole trip down here, I thought about how I was going to convince him you were just using him. That you were manipulating him. But now that I’m here… Well, like I said, you look at him different. You look at him like he could bludgeon you half to death and you’d thank him for it.”

Dorian really wanted to argue. He wanted to say that she was wrong, that she didn’t know what she was talking about, but it would be a lie. Feyren had him wrapped around his finger, had for a while (apparently, even as Feyren was telling his friend how much he hated him), and it was obvious to everyone. Any attempt to correct her would have seemed feeble. So he stayed quiet. 

She chuckled. “Creators, the faces you make; I’m surprised you don’t have more wrinkles.” Bending down to be level with him, her face was suddenly serious. “I don’t see much of a point in threatening you, because he seems much more capable of hurting you than the other way ‘round. But just know that we Dalish care for our own and can hold a grudge better than the worst of them. Feyren is the best of us. If you hurt him, even all the way down here, I can find a way to bury a knife in you.”

Suddenly, Feyren appeared, brows knitting together as Lila straightened up and grinned at him. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, tossing a small smile at Dorian (who was too busy thinking to return it) before turning his gaze back to Lila. “What… uh, what are you doing?”

“Just having a friendly chat with the Vint,” she said casually, smirking over at Dorian. “Say, I walked by that Orlesian lady by the stables, seemed to have some good product. I’m in the market for a new knife, especially if she’s got Orlesian style.”

“Do you need more knives?” he asked, sounding a bit exasperated. 

Lila seemed irritated that he’d even ask. “I always need more knives.”

With a sigh, Feyren glanced at Dorian before looking back at Lila. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

She quirked an eyebrow but didn’t give him a hard time about it. Instead, she bowed and winked at him. “As you wish, Lord Inquisitor.” 

Then she was gone, leaving Feyren and Dorian to themselves. 

“Sorry if she was… well, herself,” Feyren said with a chuckle, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “She’s a dear friend, but she’s a pretty violent person.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Dorian looked up at Feyren, face serious. 

It seemed to make Feyren nervous, but still, he answered, “Of course.”

Now Dorian hesitated. “A troublesome question?”

Feyren smiled, though there was a nervous lilt to it. “Those tend to be the worthwhile kind.”

“How long did you hate me?” Instantly, Feyren looked deeply uncomfortable, and Dorian rather regretted asking. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity, I suppose,” he replied with a shrug. And that was it; he wasn’t sure what he had to gain out of such a question, but he couldn’t keep himself from asking.

Feyren sighed. “I… I don’t know, Dorian. To me, you… you represented the oppression of my people. Their suffering. It was hard to look at you and see anything else, especially when you were so…”

“Insensitive?” 

Feyren chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. If we’re being honest, Dorian, I had half a mind to demand that you leave. I mean, my thoughts when I saw you… it was a roar of just… loathing. It wasn’t all you, of course - the fact that I was so anxious here didn’t help - but I could practically taste blood when I saw you.”

It was enlightening to hear, frankly. Feyren contained himself well if that was really what he’d felt; Dorian had known the man hadn’t liked him, but to hate him that much and still allow him to stay? He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do it. 

“What changed your mind?” he asked finally, and Feyren shrugged.

“You. Making an honest effort. Apologizing and sitting at dinner with me, even when I just made you sit in silence. Honestly, I was sure I’d hate you forever, but… I don’t know. There was something sort of pathetic about how hard you were trying, it made me want to throw you a bone.”

Dorian looked up to see Feyren smirking, but there was a bit of stubborn defensiveness behind his gaze, too. Like he was daring Dorian to judge him for his hatred.

But Dorian didn’t. He did in those first few weeks, but now he couldn’t find it within himself to do so. How could he, after all they’d been through? After all he knew his countrymen to be? If he didn’t feel he could trust any Tevinter he met, how could he expect Feyren to feel differently? How could he expect him to feel anything but hatred? 

He was broken from his thoughts when he felt a hand smoothing over his own, and he looked up to see Feyren’s gaze had softened. “It’s a credit to you, Dorian, that I think of you the way I do now.”

Dorian couldn’t resist the bait, and perhaps Feyren knew that. “Oh? And how do you think of me?”

Feyren smiled and tugged Dorian’s hand until the man got the hint and stood up. “I think you’re charming, gorgeous, unbelievably intelligent. Even more than you give yourself credit for.” Dorian grinned, but something in Feyren’s expression softened it. He looked gentle, affectionate, sweeter than Dorian deserved. “But most importantly, you’re a good man with a soft heart. I meant what I said last night. I… I  _ do  _ adore you. And if you’ll have me, I -”

Dorian didn’t give him the chance to finish before he was kissing him. It was less sloppy than the night before, but no less heated. Seemed as though they both forgot they were in a library. After a few moments (or minutes? Dorian couldn’t tell), there was a pointed cough, and Dorian pulled back to see Varric striding by with a book under his arm.

“You have an audience,” Varric told them casually, and, upon further evaluation, Dorian realized he was correct. The few people in the library had all turned to openly stare at them. Varric was halfway to the stairs when he announced, rather cheerfully, “Thank the Maker for Knives. If you two had waited a day longer I would’ve owed Solas five sovereigns.”

Feyren let out a surprised, giddy laugh and turned to Dorian, who was very busy staring at him. Another question popped into his head, but he was hesitant to ask.

“What?” Feyren said, because he was all too perceptive. “You look nervous?”

“I just… had another question.”

A sparkle appeared in Feyren’s eye. “Another troublesome one?”

Dorian chuckled. “Quite. I was wondering if… you and Lila…”

Feyren’s brow knitted. “If we were… what? Ever together?” Dorian nodded. “No, no. Lila and me, we’re like siblings. Besides, she met some Rivani pirate when we snuck into Kirkwall once and has been pining ever since.” Feyren glanced away, out towards the window. “Speaking of which, I should probably get back to her. Maybe we can pick this up in a couple days? When she’s gone?”

Dorian smiled. “Of course. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”

Feyren smirked in return, and there was something mischevious in it that delighted Dorian. “Dorian, you couldn’t be fonder of me if I started taking my clothes off right here in the library.”

Of course, Dorian knew he was right, but he still found himself saying, with a rather wicked grin, “I’m willing to test that theory.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Hope you enjoy, and I'll try to get back into a better writing schedule soon!

To Dorian’s own surprise, he became quite fond of Lila in the next few days. She had a sharp wit and wasn’t afraid to give him a hard time, but nor was she afraid to receive one. And, of course, he wasn’t the only friend she made. Her and Varric got along well (especially when she found out that he was good friends with her long-lost pirate love), and Iron Bull, as Dorian predicted, did love her. He was trying to get her to join the Chargers within an hour of meeting her.

Perhaps most interestingly, Krem seemed half in love with her. Dorian had passed by when they were sparring and stopped to watch.

Krem was being taken to task; he was powerful and fast, yes, but she was faster. He’d tried a couple of dirty tricks, even - a leg sweep, a hit in the side, kicking sand up into the eyes - to no avail, considering Lila did the same tricks, and better. A couple minutes in and she had him pinned underneath her, her dagger at his throat.

“Nice try, but you’ll have to learn some tricks I haven’t seen before,” she said with a smirk, pulling herself off of Krem and inspecting her dagger. He looked rather glassy-eyed as he stood.

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that. Not like me to pull those out,” Krem admitted, still sounding a bit dazed.

She chuckled, shrugging. “Yeah, well, tel’abelas, Aclassi. It’s _exactly_ like me.” She wiped some of his blood off her dagger and he looked like he was going to pass out.

Still, despite the fact they were all getting along just fine, Dorian was pleased when the week drew to an end and, thus, Lila’s stay. Feyren had, as expected, spent most of his time with her, and they’d seen each other just a few times. But Dorian had woken up that morning to a note that was slid under his door. It read:

_Ma vhenan, I owe you some alone time. Meet me in my quarters tonight, once everyone’s asleep._

Dorian smiled and slipped the note into his pocket, making a mental note to ask what ‘vhenan’ meant.

The morning went by at an absolutely torturous pace, but at least he had Lila to amuse him. She was telling a very animated story about the night she and Feyren had sneaked into Kirkwall (unbeknownst to their Keeper). How she’d bedded a pirate she met at the Blooming Rose while Feyren had caught the attention of some poor noble sod who followed him around the Hanged Man like a puppy all night. She described him to Varric, who burst out laughing as he apparently knew the guy (“He had an elf fetish, absolutely. Especially Dalish. I could tell you stories about a very angry elf friend of mine - wasn’t Dalish, but he had some markings and the asshole didn’t care to tell the difference. Maker, he was ready to punch him into the next age.”).

Eventually, though, it was time for goodbyes, and she wasn’t really much for them. She hugged Feyren, told Varric to ask after Isabela for her, and promised Bull she’d teach him some Dalish warrior tactics next time they met. Finally, she reached Dorian.

“You’re not so bad, Vint,” she informed him after a short appraisal. “Funny thing. I definitely came here wanting to kill you, then I sort of felt apathetic towards your death, but now… Honestly, I think I might even prefer it if you didn’t die.”

Feyren rolled his eyes, but Dorian grinned. “A touching sentiment.”

“But I’ll still punch you if you cry.” Still, she said it with a smile, and Dorian _did_ feel weirdly touched.

After she left, the day went by even more slowly. She’d been his only real distraction - trying to focus on a book then would be hopeless - so he took to walking the grounds. It was an unseasonably warm day, especially for Skyhold, and the sun was beating down so intensely that Dorian, for a moment, was reminded of home.

Smiling to himself, he rounded a corner when suddenly he was met by the sight of Feyren, standing side by side with a young boy. Dorian moved a bit closer for a better look but remained behind the barn so he wouldn’t be seen.

The child couldn’t have been more than ten, small and skinny and freckled. His hair was redder than Feyren’s, almost unnaturally so, and Dorian could see a pair of elven ears poking out from under the blazing mane. Dorian, for a moment, wondered if he was Dalish, but glanced away to see an elven man and woman looking on with smiles, no vallaslin to be seen. A city elf, then.

Feyren was crouched down beside the boy, who had a small bow. Dorian recognized it as one Feyren had looted when they were out on a mission in the Hinterlands.

“You know that elves are the best marksmen in the world, don’t you?” Feyren told the boy as he helped him angle his bow.

“The Dalish are,” replied the boy, raising his hands a little shakily to where Feyren was leading them. He seemed nervous; Dorian reminded himself that Feyren was now a paragon to all people, but especially his people. He was rising to the level of Shartan. No wonder this child was nervous.

Feyren smiled kindly at him, shaking his head. “No difference. The Dalish are elves, just like you’re an elf. We were just born in different places. And, of course, we Dalish stink like halla,” he told him, winking. It earned a laugh from the boy, who seemed to relax a bit. “So that means you can be just as good a shot as me or any Dalish hunter. Look at Sera! She’s an even better shot than I am. Now, relax your shoulders… that’s it, there you go. Deep breath… Now look at the target and line yourself up like I showed you… And release.”

The boy didn’t exactly hit dead center, but it was closer than all the other arrows on the target. It seemed they’d been at this for a bit. Feyren grinned and clapped the boy on the back, who looked delighted with himself. “That’s it, Luca! All you need to do is practice, and you'll hit the center every time.”

The boy - Luca - beamed at him. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, moving to hand the bow back. Feyren quickly shook his head, pushing it back into the child’s hands.

“Keep it. You’ll need it, to practice,” he said, and the boy’s eyes went wide as saucers. “And, by the way, you can call me Feyren.”

Luca’s parents gave him a stern look, to let him know that they felt otherwise, but Luca wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at Feyren with an expression of absolute wonder as he clutched the bow to his chest.

Dorian was suddenly aware of how much his face ached from smiling, and he turned away, starting back toward the castle. The emotional response he was having to the scene was… a bit overwhelming, if not surprising. After all, it was quite… something to realize that many could accuse him of looking at Feyren the same way that boy had, like some sort of divine gift. Because, to Dorian, as to so many people, he was.

But more than anything, seeing Feyren with that boy made him realize that, while Feyren was generous with his time and self, Dorian knew him in a way that others didn’t. That they couldn’t. He was their hero, and Feyren knew that, so all he let them see was him as the victorious Inquisitor. But Dorian was the one who saw him fall apart. Dorian was the one who saw him frustrated, scared, upset, angry. That was a gift, too. No one got to know Feyren like Dorian did. The real Feyren, rough edges and all.

And Dorian, much to his trepidation, was finally forced to admit that he was quite in love with him.

* * *

Dorian was antsy for the rest of the evening, finding himself reading the same page over and over again. Finally, though, all was quiet; the castle settled, and Dorian closed the book he hadn’t read before heading in the direction of the Inquisitor’s room.

He felt a nervousness that surprised him. After all, he wasn’t exactly a virgin, nor had it been particularly long since his last… engagement. But after his realization earlier, he knew that things were different with Feyren. They always had been, but now he was forced to acknowledge it. Feyren meant more to him than he cared to analyze, and that alone was enough to explain the knot in his stomach as he ascended the stairs to the man’s room. He didn’t knock this time, instead simply opening the door and making his way up.

Feyren was sitting at his desk, paperwork in front of him, but he looked up immediately to smile when Dorian entered. He must have been distracted, too. It was a comforting thought. Dorian smiled as he made his way over the last step, taking in the other man’s appearance. He was in rare, relaxed form, hair tumbling down a plain white tunic, tucked into some breeches.

“Dorian,” he greeted, pushing back his chair and standing. “I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming.”

Dorian let out a laugh as Feyren made his way over. “Please,” he replied, slipping an arm around the man’s waist as Feyren’s hands went to his shoulders. “As if I haven’t been missing you something dreadful these past few days.”

Feyren let out a pleased hum, ears twitching underneath his thick curtain of hair. “I’ve missed you, too,” he replied, voice low enough to make Dorian shiver. “I’ve thought of little else, to be honest.”

His thumb was stroking back and forth over Dorian’s neck, and it was wholly distracting. Dorian wanted to say something witty, but he found any hope died quickly. Instead, he leaned his head forward, closing the distance between them until their lips were nearly touching. Close enough that he felt Feyren’s smile more than he saw it.

Feyren closed the last of the space between them, and, Maker, it felt so wonderful to kiss him after so many days of wanting to. His mouth was soft, lips dry, and Dorian wanted to devour him. He supposed it showed; soon he was pressing Feyren into the desk, one hand gripping his hip tightly while the other slipped under his shirt. There was an urgency to his kisses, to his movements, a sort of desperation.

But before he could take it further, he felt Feyren’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back firmly (but gently, and only far enough so that they were no longer kissing) while the other stopped the hand moving under his shirt. Dorian’s eyes fluttered open, staring at Feyren with confusion. The man looked flushed, but his gaze was steady and kind.

“Must we move so quickly?”

Dorian immediately took a step back, trying to calm himself and his flaming cheeks. “I… I’m sorry, I must have gotten the wrong impression about what you had in mind tonight. I apologize.”

“Dorian, stop,” Feyren replied, closing the distance between them that Dorian created. “You didn’t get the wrong impression. But you’re going too fast.” He reached out to put a hand on Dorian’s face, stroking his cheek, and, despite his current anxiety, Dorian leaned into it. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long do your… flings usually last?”

Dorian frowned a little. “I… don’t know. Not the whole night, certainly. It’s not like I had ample amounts of time on the road to devote to that sort of thing, though I made due. Why?”

Feyren smiled a little, graceful fingers moving down to trace Dorian’s jaw. “Because I’m not one of those men,” he said, as though Dorian didn’t already know. But then he went on, his words and tone making Dorian’s knees wobbly. “I’m devoting my entire night to you, Dorian Pavus. To exploring every inch of you, to tasting and touching every bit of skin I can get my hands and mouth on. To making you feel true satisfaction. True pleasure.” His fingers went to Dorian’s lips then, and the other man couldn’t help his tongue darting out to meet them. Feyren smirked. “I canceled my morning meetings. I have nothing until half past noon. I don’t care if it takes all night; I’m not stopping until you can’t possibly move another muscle. Perhaps not even then.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, mouth agape, at a loss for words. It was true that he’d never experienced what Feyren was describing; his past lovers were quick, efficient, passions that burned like a firework. Brilliant, but gone in an instant. No one had ever… _worshipped_ him in the way Feyren was describing. It did as much to his heart as to… well, not his heart.

Finally, closing his mouth, he cleared his throat. “You’ve… quite a gift for monologue.”

Feyren quirked an eyebrow, smiling. “Is that your consent?”

This took less time to conjure a response. “I give it heartily.”

Feyren’s grin turned wicked unlike Dorian had ever seen, not even the night he’d been Fen’Harel. “Excellent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're dying for smut, fear not; next chapter will have plenty!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is why it's rated M! I tried not to add anything that was too necessary to understand the plot, so if smut makes you uncomfy, you can probably skip it without much harm done.

Dorian supposed that his attempts to analyze his current situation were a sort of defense mechanism. After all, in any other situation where he was naked underneath a gorgeous (and still-clothed, damn him) man, he would have completely disregarded all coherent thought in favor of more enjoyable pursuits. But now, he was straining to think about things; how he got there, what would happen next, etc. He was far too in his own head, but he couldn’t seem to escape. 

“Copper for your thoughts.” And, of course Feyren had noticed. But there was no judgment on his face, just confusion and mild concern. Dorian smiled reassuringly. 

“I’m just overthinking.”

“Overthink later. You deserve a break,” he told him, smirking as he took Dorian’s hand and brushed his lips over the palm. “You remember when I did this? Before Adamant?”

Dorian did. Of course Dorian did. That was one of the moments he could most assuredly chart on his journey to becoming disgustingly in love with this man. “Vaguely.”

Feyren shot him a look, but his expression indicated that he knew Dorian was joking. “I told you family and friends did it for luck, but I lied,” he muttered, pressing his lips more firmly to Dorian’s palm before pulling back. “Lovers do it. And it’s a bit more involved; that’s just the start.” He brushed his lips along Dorian’s wrist, trailing up his arm. The touch was light, and it sent shivers down Dorian’s spine. “You bless the arm, on behalf of Andruil. May your aim be true.”

He ducked down, starting his mouth at Dorian’s thigh and trailing down his leg. He only lifted his head when he reached the top of Dorian’s foot, smiling up at him. “And the legs and feet. May Ghilan'nain guide your steps.” Heat was pooling in Dorian’s stomach, and he found that the thoughts that had distracted him were quickly fading. How was it that Feyren did that? All he could focus on was his lips trailing up the other leg to meet back at his chest, where he planted a kiss over Dorian’s heart. “May Falon’Din steady your soul.”

Up again, to his eyelids now. His touch was gentle, affectionate, tender. Dorian had never really experienced anything quite like it. “May Dirthamen keep you clear-headed.” And finally, to his lips then, a lingering kiss that stole his breath. It lasted a few long moments before Feyren was pulling away, and Dorian was left to chase after him. Feyren smiled. “And may Sylaise bring you home to me.”

Dorian’s breath was heavier then, but he felt a strange prickling sensation in the corner of his eyes, too. He ignored it, pushed it back. “I wouldn’t’ve minded that at the time, you know.”

Feyren chuckled, pushing a hand through Dorian’s hair. It wound itself tight, and Dorian’s breath caught in his throat. “I know. But I wasn’t ready. Now, though....” He tugged Dorian’s hair back, a little more roughly than Dorian may have expected. It was both surprise and a new spark of heat that shot through him. “Now, I’m starving.”

Dorian let out a noise that was actually quite embarrassing when Feyren ducked his head down to suck and nip relentlessly at his neck. A mark, one that wouldn’t quickly go away, was blooming on the skin, he could feel it. And Maker, did he not care at all. He wanted it. He wanted to waltz out of the Inquisitor’s chambers with the ugliest purple bruise on his neck so that no one could question who he belonged to, and what they’d done. 

Feyren, true to his word, took his time. His mouth moved all over Dorian’s neck, then down to his chest. Tongue and teeth gave each of Dorian’s nipples so much attention that he was wholly convinced, if enough time was dedicated, he could have come just from that. Once Feyren had made it down to his stomach, though, Dorian was tired of gripping fabric; he got ahold of himself enough to yank it upwards helplessly until Feyren got the picture. Chuckling, the man tugged his tunic over his head before getting back to work, lavishing Dorian’s stomach with attention. It was quite a sight, admittedly, the Inquisitor’s lovely freckled shoulders, gorgeous red hair, all dipping lower and lower until--

It shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, but it did. The feel of Feyren’s tongue dragging over his cock startled a moan out of him, but he forced himself to stay still. He was an utterly willing participant in this; whatever Feyren wanted to give him, he’d take. He glanced down to see the other man looking up at him, amused. 

“You’re cute,” he said, and Dorian flushed. 

“We’ll see how cute I am when I set your hair on fire.”

Feyren laughed, gripping Dorian’s cock firmly and giving it a stroke. Dorian let out a strangled noise in response. “I mean, it’s cute that you’re trying to hold back. Sweet. But don’t, vhenan. Alright? Stop thinking so much.”

Dorian said nothing this time, just nodded. It was somehow… easier to clear his mind when Feyren phrased it like that, when he said he wanted him to. It was just like the field, following his orders automatically. So he took a deep breath and let himself relax. Then, he let himself feel as Feyren slid his mouth over his cock.

Feyren knew what he was doing, that much was clear. If Dorian wasn’t so determined to keep from thinking, he may have overanalyzed that a bit. As it were, he let himself enjoy it. He felt -- really  _ felt _ , free from thought -- every movement of Feyren’s tongue, the wet heat of his mouth, the tightness of his throat when he ducked his head down low. He felt so much that he was fairly certain that, at any moment, he was going to come. 

“Stop, stop,” he gasped, tugging on Feyren’s hair. The man pulled off with a gentle pop, and Dorian’s head fell back as he squirmed with discomfort and pleasure at his near-orgasm. “You’re far too good at that.”

Feyren chuckled, trailing his fingers along Dorian’s cock. His whole body spasmed in response. “I’m good at a lot of things. But, in this case, I’m just exceptionally dedicated.” He moved up to kiss Dorian, careful not to press their lower halves together. Dorian was grateful.

When they parted, though, Dorian glanced down, then met Feyren’s eyes sternly. “Am I ever going to get you fully naked, Inquisitor?”

Feyren grinned. “If you insist.” Sitting up onto his knees, he slowly undid the ties of his breeches, nudging them down his hips. In another circumstance, with anyone else, Dorian may have teased him for making a show of it. But right now, he was so hungry to have as much as Feyren would give him that he couldn’t find it within himself to do anything except stare. Finally,  _ finally _ , Feyren’s breeches were off, and Dorian got to see him. All of him. It was shameful, the way he stared. 

For the first time that evening, Feyren faltered, flushing. “You’re pulling quite the face right now.”

“I’m in awe,” Dorian admitted, grabbing Feyren’s hand and tugging him close again. “You’re the most gorgeous sight I’ve ever beheld.”

“Stop,” he replied, flushing to the tips of his ears. Ears that betrayed him, twitching in that way they did when he was pleased. Dorian grinned and leaned up to kiss him. Some of his desperation ebbed then, and, for a moment, he felt no fear. So he let himself be in love. He let himself be in love with this remarkable man, this giving, warm, hilarious, stubborn, beautiful man, forcing away any shame or guilt or fear at the thought of doing so. 

Love, to Dorian, had always been something quite terrifying, ever since he knew what it meant. Love was an inconvenience. Love would get him ostracized. Love was the thing that made his father, so disgusted with blood magic, turn and use it on his own son. But it was none of those things when he was kissing Feyren. It was the violet of his eyes, the violent pounding of Dorian’s heart, the sound of their laughter mixing together, low and quiet during a late night in the library. He was sick with it in that moment, his heart turning over in his chest, and he felt…  _ lucky _ . Lucky, that he was in the right place in the right time, right enough that he was given the opportunity to fall in love with Feyren. Even if he never loved him back, Dorian would always feel grateful for the opportunity to love him.

Lila’s words rang out in his mind:  _ You look at him like he could bludgeon you half to death and you’d thank him for it. _ Perhaps it was true. No, it  _ was  _ true. But love, real, healthy love, was knowing someone had the ability to do that and trusting them not to. 

“I’m losing you again.”

Feyren was looking at him warmly; Dorian didn’t remember him pulling away. Still, this time, he laughed, letting his head fall against Feyren’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he replied, pressing a kiss to Feyren’s shoulder. “I was just thinking about how fortunate I am.”

He felt Feyren shake with a soft laugh. “Flatterer,” he replied, ducking his head down to kiss Dorian’s head. It made Dorian feel… safe. Cared for. As if maybe all of the mess around them didn’t exist. As if they were the only two in the world. He’d never had anyone who made him feel like Feyren did. So… much. 

He’d told Feyren before that one of the things he loved most about his country, about his people, was that they felt nothing in half measures. Everything was passion, was intensity, but he had never felt how true it could be for himself until Feyren. Until that moment. 

He lifted his head, putting a hand to Feyren’s cheek. “But I mean it. Thank you,” he said, with so much sincerity that it turned Feyren’s face a darker shade of red. 

“You aren’t the only one who’s fortunate,” he replied, a slight catch to his voice. He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have been able to get through this… all of this… without you.”

Dorian smiled, but said nothing else, instead leaning in to kiss Feyren again. Tender at first, but then more heated, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues, hands soaking up as much of each other as possible. The time for talking had ended, if only for a little while. 

Feyren leaned forward, pushing Dorian onto his back. He wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, pulling him forward. Skin met glorious skin, and Dorian realized they were breathing together, mouths pressed close, less kissing now and more simply wanting to be connected. 

Feyren’s lips drifted from his mouth to his cheek to his ear, mouthing the skin just underneath his earlobe. He was saying something, breathy and rushed, in the elven language. It sounded so intimate, escaping Feyren’s lips like a prayer. He lost himself in the sound, digging his heels deeper into Feyren’s lower back as they ground their hips together. 

“ _ Dorian _ .” The way he said it...  Dorian had never thought much about his name, whether or not he liked it -- it just  _ was _ , after all -- but hearing Feyren say it? He’d never loved his name so much.

“Feyren.” He could feel the heat build in his stomach every time their cocks dragged together, the glorious friction sending him in a tailspin. Over too soon. “I want…” 

“Anything,” Feyren breathed, nipping his earlobe gently. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you, ma vhenan. Ask.”

There was only the briefest hesitation before Dorian said, “I want you to fuck me.”

He felt Feyren smile against his skin. “I can do that.”

Then he was moving off Dorian (much to Dorian’s dismay) toward his drawers, opening the top one and pulling out a medium-sized vial of oil. Half was already gone. 

“Busy, were we?” Dorian asked, breathless, as Feyren climbed back onto the bed and kneeled next to him. 

Feyren chuckled and gripped Dorian’s hip with his free hand, gently turning him over. Dorian complied, raising himself up on his knees and elbows. Quite an exposed position, but it wouldn’t be the first time Dorian found himself in it. “It’s been a long week,” he told him, moving behind Dorian and kissing along his spine. “I thought of you every night. Of this.”

“Every night?” Dorian preened a bit, he couldn’t help it. Everyone knew he was a glutton for compliments, especially from handsome men. Especially from Feyren. “A bit desperate, hm?” 

Dorian heard the vial open behind him and, soon enough, a slick finger was moving over his hole. He sucked in a sharp breath as it pressed inside of him. “More than a bit,” he muttered, beginning to work the finger in and out of him. “You’ve no idea what you do to me, Dorian. How much I adore you, how gorgeous you are, how infuriating and intoxicating. I could spend years in this bed with you and not be finished.”

Dorian was quite weak at the knees by then, but he tried not to show it. He wasn’t sure what semblance of pride he was trying to retain with Feyren, but he was clutching it tightly, it seemed. “And you call me a flatterer.”

“Not flattery if it’s true.” He was working his finger in and out of him at a steady pace now, curving it to hit that spot in Dorian just so. He was soon trembling. 

“Sem-Semantics,” he gasped, letting his head fall forward. Feyren let out a low chuckle, a distressingly sexy sound, as he curved his finger and made Dorian’s knees shake. “Maker damn you, Lavellan.”

“And Fen’Harel take you, Pavus.” He slipped another finger into Dorian then, stretching him in earnest. Maker, he was taking his time, wasn’t he? Dorian was used to something much quicker, but Feyren seemed to want to get him to the begging point.

And Dorian wasn’t sure he was above it.

So Feyren stretched him open, nice and slow, and Dorian tried not to look as desperate as he felt. Easier said than done; soon, he was rocking back on Feyren’s fingers, letting out a litany of embarrassing sounds. 

It felt like centuries before Feyren slipped in a third finger. It burned, but it was the nice sort. The sort that only made him more desperate. But Feyren was steady as ever. 

“You’re torturing me,” Dorian whined, though the breathlessness in his voice and the way he was rocking back on Feyren’s fingers made his point fall flat.

Feyren chuckled. “I’m being  _ thorough _ .”

But he seemed to take pity on Dorian, because, seconds later, he was pulling his fingers out of him. Dorian let out a breath, preparing himself for what would come next, but then Feyren was turning him over. He looked at the man, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Feyren shook his head, smiling. “No. Just wanted to be able to see you.”

That gave Dorian pause. It wasn’t as though he’d never fucked anyone on his back before, but they’d never… cited  _ that _ as a reason. It felt an awful lot more like that tired phrase,  _ making love _ . He’d never been fond of it, but, well… maybe it could grow on him. 

He watched Feyren slick up his cock -- admittedly sizable, as well as rock hard, despite the fact that Dorian hadn’t touched him (something they’d have to amend later that evening) -- before spreading Dorian’s legs and looking up at him. “Good?”

And Dorian could reply, with absolute conviction, “Never better.”

Feyren smiled before pushing inside of him, and, through discomfort, Dorian felt relief like he never had before. He spread his legs, making room for Feyren to do as he pleased. Feyren, who looked distressingly gorgeous, a curtain of his blazing hair barely masking the look of pleasure on his face. He was taking it slow at first, a steady rhythm, before building up to something more uptempo, and it occurred to Dorian that this all shouldn’t have felt so new. But it  _ did _ . It didn’t matter how much experience he had, nothing prepared him for the way it felt to do to  _ this _ with Feyren. To see the man’s face twisted in pleasure, to feel so connected, it almost made him want to say something stupid. Something like  _ I love you _ .

He reached up and pulled Feyren’s head down to kiss him, to silence himself. It only served to make the urge even worse. Feyren kissed him like his life depended on it, deep and messy and affectionate all at once, and all Dorian could do was bury his hand in the man’s hair and try to give it back just as good. He could feel that sensation in his stomach building, that tell-tale twist in his gut, which only grew more intense when he shifted and Feyren was fucking into him  _ just so _ . He gasped into the man’s mouth, rocking down more desperately against his cock. Then Feyren’s hand went between them, stroking his cock, and he was done for. 

“Feyren, Feyren, kaffas,  _ amatus _ .” He squirmed desperately as he came, clenching around Feyren’s cock. It seemed to be enough for Feyren, who let out a low groan as he came. They rode out the waves of their orgasms together, both whining, groaning messes until Feyren collapsed on top of him. 

They were a pile of heaving breaths, of sweat, of mess, and Dorian was certain he never felt so good. Sex had never felt so… pure before. There was always shame underlying it, a feeling of  _ I should not be doing this _ , but Feyren was different. Nothing with him could ever be wrong. 

“You’re crushing me,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. He couldn’t muster it. In fact, he didn’t really want Feyren to move. 

But, to his chagrin, the man did, pulling out of him. They both winced as he did, but then he was gathering Dorian up in his arms, encouraging him to rest his head on his chest. Dorian nestled there, listening to Feyren yawn. 

“Tired already?” Dorian asked, an edge of teasing.

Feyren let out a little hum. Dorian could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “A power nap. But I’m not done with you yet.”

Dorian smiled and turned his head, pressing a kiss to Feyren’s chest. “Lucky me.”

“No,” Feyren corrected, tilting his head down to kiss Dorian’s forehead. “Lucky  _ me _ .”

Dorian let out a huff of a laugh. “Contrarian.”

Feyren chuckled, then paused in thought for a moment. “Then a compromise. Lucky us?”

Smiling, and feeling disgustingly sentimental, Dorian closed his eyes. “Lucky us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting this to be as fluffy as it turned out, but what can I say? Dorian is one sappy, in love bastard.


	13. Chapter 13

Dorian woke up just as the sun was peeking up over the horizon. This was incredibly surprising to him, considering he’d spent almost the entire night being ravished by his… Feyren (though he still wasn’t particularly sure he could call him  _ his _ , even after what had occurred). It had been as unrelenting as the other man had promised, and, upon stretching, Dorian found that his limbs had turned remarkably jelly-like. Glancing next to him, he saw Feyren, fast asleep.

It was like something from one of Cassandra’s syrupy novels, all the emotion that flooded him when he looked at the man. So much of the night spent in passion, and now, in the gentle light of the early morning, there was something softer to take its place. Something Dorian didn’t want to name.

Well, not name  _ again _ , at any rate.

He forced himself upright, turning so that his legs hung over the bed. Still, he didn’t dare try to stand, unconvinced that he was safe from toppling over. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair - a dreadful mess - and stared at the floor, assessing his current predicament. 

This, of course, wasn’t the first time that Dorian had allowed himself to feel this sort of softness, but it was certainly the most significant. And after the way last time ended, with him being too afraid to declare his feelings, he felt a sort of determination to not let this end the same way. Feyren was… wonderful and had become so unbelievably important to Dorian. But mustering up the courage to do or say something, anything, to let Feyren know how he felt… well, that was a beast of a different name. After all, though Feyren had suggested there were at least  _ some  _ feelings involved on his side of things, the sensible thing to do would have been to end things before someone got hurt. Because someone would, wouldn’t they? They didn’t make logical sense, him and Feyren. They were worlds apart, even if they’d been forced together by circumstance. And yet... 

“You are an  _ incessant  _ thinker, do you know that?” a sleep-rough voice from beside him said. He turned and smiled at the picture Feyren made, one eye open, peering at him with amusement (and a little trepidation).

“I think you’ve informed me as such,” Dorian replied, hands clenching and unclenching at his thighs. This drew Feyren’s attention. The man opened both eyes and scooted a little closer. 

“You  _ think _ ,” he teased gently, but one of his hands snaked its way over to Dorian’s. When he laced their fingers together, Dorian’s gaze fell to their joined hands. “You’re a lot less impulsive than you’d have people believe.”

“Have me figured out so fast, do you?”

“You just make paying attention so fun,” he replied, thumb brushing back and forth as he propped his head up on his other hand. “Talk to me, ma vhenan.”

The word drew Dorian’s attention. “That. You’ve said it before. What does it mean?”

Feyren smiled, but his cheeks colored. “Just an elven term of endearment.”

“You’re avoiding answering the actual question,” Dorian replied, eyebrows raised. Feyren let out a soft chuckle. 

“You're relentless, you know." When Dorian didn't let up, Feyren sighed, looking mildly embarrassed. "It means ‘my heart’.”

That gave Dorian pause. Though he’d suspected as much, it was quite another thing to hear it confirmed. “I see.”

“And what of ‘amatus’?” Feyren asked, and it was Dorian’s turn to blush.

But instead of responding to the question, he chose a different route (of course, recognizing the hypocrisy in doing so, but hypocrisy was essentially the national pastime of all Tevinter natives, so). “You realize I’m not… used to this sort of thing, don’t you? Where I come from, two men may merely pass the time together, but for things to go further… it’s rare. Almost unheard of.” He pulled his hand away from Feyren’s then and spared a glance at the other man. He wished he hadn’t; Feyren looked… hurt. That was the only word to describe it. The expression on his face made Dorian want to self-flagellate in the middle of the courtyard, in front of everyone. But still, the pain in his expression made Dorian feel something like hope. Hope that maybe Feyren would be just as torn up about losing him.

Before he could take back his words, Feyren looked away and said, “I understand.”

“No, no, you don’t,” Dorian insisted quickly, turning a bit and trying to meet Feyren’s eye. “You don’t. Just because it  _ is  _ that way in Tevinter doesn’t mean that it has to be that way with us. Or that I  _ want _ it to be that way with us. I… I want…” He trailed off, but Feyren’s gaze stayed upon him. It gave him strength as much as it unnerved him. But it also made Dorian think back to what the man said to him what felt like years ago.  _ I think you’re very brave _ . He wanted to be worthy of the word. Taking a deep breath, he stared at his lap. “I  _ like  _ you. No, I… I  _ love  _ you. More than I think is wise. More than would ever be wise, but especially in this circumstance. I know this, and I can’t help it. You are… everything I could ever want or need. You make me better. But all of that means nothing if you don’t feel the same way.”

“I do.” There was no pause in his response, and it startled Dorian, whose head shot up in disbelief. Feyren met him with a dopey grin. “I do feel the same way, Dorian.”

Dorian opened his mouth and then closed it again, unsure what to say. He was sure he looked like a startled deer, but Feyren did nothing but continue grinning at him. At least until Dorian seemed to wait a moment too long, and he rolled his eyes before leaning up to kiss him. It was a soft kiss, gentle and reassuring, and Dorian drank it in like a man dying of thirst. He’d never really known how needy he was until Feyren but, lucky for him, the other man seemed up to the challenge. 

When they pulled back, Feyren rested their foreheads together. “I can’t promise everything will be easy, but I  _ do  _ love you, Dorian Pavus. And I want to be with you, for as long as we can.”

Dorian let out a soft, surprised chuckle. He would never get over the sound of that, he was sure. An I love you, coming from Feyren, would never get old. “That’s… quite welcome news,” he replied, an understatement. Another chuckle, breathless, tumbled from him. “A Dalish elf and a Tevinter altus. Sounds improbable.”

“I’m a Dalish elf Inquisitor leading a Qunari mercenary, a Seeker, a best-selling novelist, and a weird human-spirit hybrid, among equally strange others, in a quest to close a hole in the sky that’s pouring out demons. Nothing about this situation is probable,” Feyren replied, letting out a chuckle of his own. “We work on improbabilities in the Inquisition. But the important thing is that it works. That  _ we  _ work. Don’t we?”

“Disgustingly well, I’d say,” Dorian replied, reaching up to curl his fingers in Feyren’s hair. There was a pause, which he ended by saying, “Amatus? It’s Tevene. My love.”

Feyren grinned. “We’re going to be disgustingly sappy. Everyone will detest us.”

Dorian laughed, returning the grin. “I’m pretty sure they won’t be happy about us keeping them up all night, either. Speaking of which…” He pushed Feyren down on his back, straddling his waist and smirking down at him. “I believe it’s my turn to do the ravishing, amatus. And I intend to be just as thorough.”

A devilish grin appeared on Feyren’s face, and Dorian delighted in it. “I’d love to see you try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, y'all, there's only one chapter left, and it's an epilogue! I'm gonna do my damnedest to make it come sooner than I have been, since things have settled down in the New Year. Hope you had a wonderful holiday season!


End file.
